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MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


































































































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Memories of Hawthorne 


BY 

ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP s 

(Mother Alphonsa) 


NEW EDITION WITH A PRELUDE BY 
MAURICE FRANCIS EGAN 



Boston and New York 
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
®(jc SUbersibe Cambribge 
1923 


z. 



COPYRIGHT, 1897 AND 1923, BY ROSE HAWTHORNE LATHROP 


ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


« 



®bc Hibtrtfttie 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 


MAR 26 ’23 v 0 

©CU698745 


PREFACE TO NEW EDITION 


These Memories of Hawthorne , printed first in the 
Atlantic Monthly in 1895 and published in book form 
in 1897, are now reissued at the suggestion of friends 
and with the ready assent of the publishers. One pur¬ 
pose of this reissue is of vital importance to me; for it is 
arranged to give the proceeds to the support of a charity 
which I established in a small way in 1896, to aid can¬ 
cerous poor, whose hidden history as a class is inspir- 
ingly sad. This class of sufferers is desolate of com¬ 
passion and tendance to any notable degree in our 
country of generous ideals. But I have found, as all 
do who enter into a just work for forlorn people, that 
the poor of this disease arouse splendid fraternal com¬ 
passion from the people to whom this world appears 
exclusively to belong. Sympathy gushes forth at the 
first clear knowledge of facts; and it would seem that 
the criterion set by Dr. Samuel Johnson for civilization 
could be had for the asking, — that it should consist in 
the degree of provision made for the happiness of the 
poor. Of course, it needs the cooperation of lives given 
as the medium of charity and loving solicitude. 

The work we sister-nurses do for our sick has grown 
substantially, and our two houses, in New York City 
and its suburb of Westchester, have long harbored 
about one hundred and twenty-five patients at a time, 
the year round, who pay nothing. They are destitute; 
and we work for no others. But if we are very consider¬ 
ate towards the poor in the matter of money, we are 
v 


PREFACE TO NEW EDITION 

unsparing towards the people outside our work, for 
we are mendicants, unaided by invested funds, but on 
the other hand, receiving no sort of remuneration 
ourselves. The work is dependent upon the charity of 
the merciful. 

The perfect charity, the instant and practical 
sympathy of my father for suffering human beings, 
make the reprinting of my book for the sustenance of 
victims of a terrible disease very appropriate. The 
patients of the Servants of Relief for Incurable Cancer, 
as we call ourselves, are of the class to which belonged 
the child whom my father found in an English hospital 
which he visited and of whom he wrote in Our Old 
Home. His words in regard to this little child, whose 
flesh reeked with parental desecration, made a deep 
impression upon me when I read them as a girl; and I 
was glad to have the latter years of my life devoted to 
a field of diseased poverty equally neglected, since the 
charity of monasticism, the ideal of which Dr. Johnson 
spoke, was interfered with. 

It seems fitting, too, that a labor such as we women 
are trying to make lasting and extensive, which is at 
the first glance loathsome, but in a full knowledge of it 
exhilarating and joyful, should be connected with the 
writings of a man who in pity “stayed with” fellow- 
creatures “towards evening,” when moral disease, 
agonies of remorse, and social ignominy shuddered at 
the approach of night. This religious, this Christlike 
choice of mental companionship (pity) with the 
greatest of all mourners, those who have sinned, which 
the reader may feel in his books from his first stories to 
the final melodious triumphs of his artistry, is com¬ 
plained of by literary tyros, skaters upon the depths of 
vi 


PREFACE TO NEW EDITION 

human nature, as gloomy. But the choice was majestic, 
full of the vigor of verity. I mentioned the exhilaration 
and joy in work for those who are physically assailed 
to tragic extents, but can only refer to it. Mirth is often 
present and has a precious value in such a dealing with 
irresistible forces, like the wit and frolic of those who, 
in the austerities of battle, are particularly merry. 
Perhaps it was his air of honest lassitude in the presence 
of a bore that led to a prevailing idea that Hawthorne 
was melancholy. He had the quality of true courage, 
mirth at will, while living or writing, in common with 
men who face guns with command and a bright glance. 
May the charitable effort which I thus connect with 
the personality of a friend of flesh and soul acquire 
something of his sustaining touch and his unflinching 
spirit. 

Mother M. Alphonsa Lathrop 
of the Order of St. Dominic 

Hawthorne, N. Y. 

January , 1923 








A PRELUDE 


This book, “Memories of Hawthorne,” is re¬ 
printed by request. Since the year 1897 it has been 
like a gentle fructifying stream refreshing the little 
gardens of lovers of good books; and now that good 
books, no matter what the date of their publication, 
are having a rebirth, it is most fitting that these 
“Memories” should — to follow the similitude—• 
flow refreshingly beyond the little gardens. Of Rose 
Hawthorne Lathrop, it is permitted to say very little. 
She appears in the lovely letters of her mother as the 
very personification of happy childhood, described 
with an art which makes some of the pictures really 
descriptive masterpieces of babyhood. 

It is interesting to note the culmination of that 
idealism — which set her father, Nathaniel Haw¬ 
thorne, apart from the rest of the world, and caused 
him to lead a constant interior life — in this woman 
who has lost all thought of self in her devotion to the 
poor — the utterly poor — who suffer from cancer. 

The Hawthornes, as a family, have never lost that 
evanescent charm, that elusive flash of the Gleam 
which sets them apart from the rest of the world; and 
the head of the family was the first psychological nov¬ 
elist of our time, the most sympathetic and noble of 
interpreters of human character, made in the like¬ 
ness of God. The greatest modern master of English 
style, — with the exception of Newman, Walter 
Pater, and Stevenson, — he is a figure whose attraction 
ix 


A PRELUDE 


for us grows year by year. It is hard for the ordinary 
reader to pluck out the heart of his mystery, to ex¬ 
plain his appearance in that garishly lit New England 
in which there seemed to be, for those who saw it 
from the distance, only bright sunlight or dismal 
shadows, unsoftened by “purple mists.” It is a 
platitude to say that Hawthorne waved his wand — 
his magic wand — and gave to his part of New 
England a new atmosphere of softness and grace and 
mystic shades and of secrets half unspoken. 

A quarter of a century has passed since his daughter 
Rose, the youngest of his children, unveiled some of 
the sources of the beauty of his life by printing the 
letters of her mother, Sophia Hawthorne, born in 
that exquisite circle — which included the Peabodys, 
the Emersons, the Prescotts, the Alcotts — of 
Thoreau, of Ripley, of Holmes, and of all that small 
society which might easily be called Athenian for 
lack of a better word. Here are found all the re¬ 
quirements of the simple life. Sophia Hawthorne 
was a lover of beauty, and nowhere, in any language, 
can one find more entrancing pictures of the little 
things which nature offers us every day. Flowers 
captured her. In England, so precious did she find 
them that she becomes rapturous over nine moss-rose 
buds, given her by a friend — nine moss-rose buds, 
all together! And, while fully conscious of the in¬ 
finite value of the expanding souls of her little children, 
she makes us feel that to her they are the most won¬ 
derful of flowers. Although the beauty of life was a 
cult with her, there was nothing pagan about her 
and nothing Puritan. 

, There are a hundred delightful touches in these 

x 


A PRELUDE 


letters — letters which may be read and re-read with 
new joy at any time. They are not even egoistical, 
though they are replete with personality. Mrs. 
Hawthorne does not force herself to invest the life 
around her with beauty — for beauty seems to 
spring up about her, as rosebuds rushed from the soil 
to meet the feet of Aurora in the old pictures. Her 
husband was the center of her life, as she was the 
center of his — for if his art to him is sacramental, 
she was the vital and essential quality of the sacra¬ 
ment; and the delicate links by which the daughter of 
these two fortunate persons joins the letters together 
are appropriate and satisfactory beyond words. 

One ought to include the theme of a fine aubade 
and of a nocturne in the prelude. To be actual, this 
would be almost impossible without using quotation 
after quotation, which would require more presump¬ 
tion than I dare to use, for it would seem to dictate 
a rule for the taste of others. But there is one pas¬ 
sage especially which expresses the essential of the 
love that filled Mrs. Hawthorne’s life which I cannot 
deny myself the honor of quoting: 

“ If,” she says in a letter to her mother, “ there is 
anything immortal in life it is the home relations, 
and heaven would be no heaven without them. God 
never has knit my soul with my husband’s soul for 
such a paltry movement as this human life! I have 
not loved my mother for one short day! My children 
do not thrill my heartstrings with less than an eternal 
melody. We know that God cannot trifle! This is 
all more real to me than what my human eye rests on. 
I heard one of the truly second-sighted say once, that 
in a trance he saw the spiritual world; and while 
xi 


A PRELUDE 


gazing enraptured on its green pastures, a spirit 
whispered to him, ‘ Out of this greenness your earthly 
pastures are green.’ ” 

But this is a book not only of the interior life. The 
windows of the house looking out upon the world are 
very cheerfully lighted. Mrs. Hawthorne had great 
common sense and unusual powers of humorous per¬ 
ception. There is always the delight in homely 
things — in “the champagne foam” with which she 
treated Thoreau, for instance; in the characteristics 
of the hospitable folk of Manchester and London, and 
in the tints of Italy. 

Each page is a vivid pastel or a delicate miniature 
of various phases of life. We are made to meet in¬ 
teresting people as they lived. Browning has never 
been better “done”; and Lord Houghton and Tenny¬ 
son and Pio Nono and scores of others of the great in 
England and in Italy come before us, not as puppets, 
interesting only to the author, but as living beings, 
But of all parts of this book the most pathetic and 
the most cheerful and the most interesting and the 
most inspiring are the letters which deal with the 
early married life of the Hawthornes. 

England and France are rich in the literature of 
letters. These add to our riches. Dating from 
1820 to 1871, these are records of their times and of 
the modes of thought and springs of action among the 
ilite of Americans. They reproduce a world which 
gives us a new world of our own. They are a precious 
treasury, and their value, for our betterment, for 
our amusement, and for our patriotism, is greater 
now than it ever was. They have a right to be placed 
on the same shelf with those great collected letters 


A PRELUDE 


which we turn to over and over again in our moments 
of leisure or of depression. They are more than a 
reflection of the genius of Hawthorne; for in her way, 
his wife has given almost as much to the world as he 
himself gave. 


Maurice Francis Egan 





PREFACE 


It will be seen that this volume is really written 
by Sophia Hawthorne; whose letters from earli¬ 
est girlhood are so expressed, and so profound in 
thought and loveliness, that some will of sterner 
quality than a daughter’s must cast them aside. 
I have tried to weed out those written records of 
hers (even from 1820) reaching to her last year 
in 1871, that could give no especial pleasure to 
any descendant who might come upon them; and 
I have been astonished to find that there was 
scarcely one such page. This is the explanation 
of my return, in the company of the friends of my 
father and mother, to an old garden, a familiar 
discourse, and a circle of life that embraced *o 
much beauty. 

Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. 

New York, February 20th , i 8 gy. 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER I 

THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

The Hawthornes summoned from their quietude by the 
Peabodys. Sophia Peabody’s mother and grandmother, 
the latter wife of General Palmer, who was prominent in 
the Revolution. Characteristics of the Misses Peabody. 
Letters to the Hawthornes from the Peabodys, though 
so close at harid, becauise of the difficulty of seeing the 
former at any time. The dignity of George Peabody’s 
nature. Sophia’s fondness for profound books. The 
great affection of friends for her, who bring rare flowers 
to the little studio where she is often imprisoned. Eliza¬ 
beth Hawthorne consents to walk with the Peabodys. 
Dr. Channing’s regard for Sophia’s artistic talent and 
motive. Miss Burley’s literary club, to which Hawthorne 
liked to go with Sophia. The wooing not a moment de¬ 
layed. Visits from Emerson and Very. Elizabeth goes 
forth among the most interesting people of Boston, and 
remains to teach their daughters ......... 


CHAPTER II 

THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

Hawthorne and Sophia become engaged, but defer the an¬ 
nouncement for a year. Sophia visits friends in Boston, 
and Hawthorne visits Boston also. Washington Allston’s 
deep approval of Sophia’s talents. Elizabeth visits the 
Emersons in Concord, and writes as if from heaven. Mr. 
Bancroft remarked to Emerson that Hawthorne was ex¬ 
ceptionally thorough in business. Sophia draws and 
xvii 



CONTENTS 


paints vigorously in her happy security of the highest 
love. Letters from Hawthorne to her. Fragment of a 
Scrap-Book kept by Hawthorne at the Boston Custom 
House. Friends rejoice in the engagement when it is 
made known. 


CHAPTER III 

THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

The beautiful marriage is appreciated by all. Letters to 
Mrs. Caleb Foote and to Sophia’s mother describe life at 
the Old Manse in Concord. The birth of Una. Emer¬ 
son, Thoreau, and Hawthorne skate upon the river near 
the Manse, with differing aspects. The radiance and 
sublimity of a Massachusetts winter enrich the land¬ 
scape. Evening readings by Hawthorne to his wife from 
the classics begun and always continued. Friends call 
somewhat frequently, at last, from the outside world. 
Visits to relatives in Boston and Salem. Mary Peabody 
becomes the wife of Horace Mann. Sophia describes 
Una’s favorable impression upon the circle of friends in 
Salem and Boston. Returning to the Old Manse renews 
the enjoyment of nature and peace. 


CHAPTER IV 

LIFE IN SALEM 

Salem becomes their home for the second time. Letter 
from George W. Curtis while in Europe. Sophia ex¬ 
presses in a letter to Hawthorne her entire satisfaction, 
though poor and in the midst of petty cares, under his 
enchanting protection. Daniel Webster’s oration in 
Salem. Alcott’s monologue. Thoreau’s lecture. Let¬ 
ters about the attack of certain mistaken people upon 
Hawthorne as a Democrat and official. Hawthorne writes 
to Horace Mann upon the subject. The best citizens are 
active to remedy the offense against Hawthorne. George 
Mullet’s letters describing Hawthorne as official and man 
xviii 




CONTENTS 


CHAPTER V 

FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

The Hawthornes seek a home by the sea, but drift up to 
the mountains of Berkshire, and are happy. Letter from 
Mrs. James R. Lowell, nee White. The Sedgwicks are 
the kindest friends in the world. Herman Melville is 
drawn to the life by Mrs. Hawthorne, in a letter to her 
mother. A poem, by Mrs. Hawthorne, to her husband . 115 


CHAPTER VI 

LENOX 

^etters and visits from friends are frequent in Lenox, 
where a literary group begin to suggest flight to the Haw¬ 
thornes, who have no liking for a fussy succession of 
intercourse. Hawthorne reads the “ House of the Seven 
Gables ” aloud to his wife as he writes it. He sends a 
long letter to William B. Pike. Charming long letters 
come from Herman Melville, though he is not far off . .139 


CHAPTER VII 

FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

Letter, full of amused astonishment, from Hawthorne to 
Mrs. Tappan. Descriptions of the divine Lenox home 
life, by Mrs. Hawthorne. The removal to West Newton, 
and finally to Concord, is made. Letter from Maria L. 
Porter, a kindred nature. Mr. Alcott is lovingly analyzed 
by Mrs. Hawthorne. Letters to her from Mr. Alcott. 
Letters to her, from Emerson, of an earlier date. Letters 
from Margaret Fuller. Mrs. Hawthorne describes The 
Wayside. General Solomon McNiel wields his affable 
sword. The Emersons pervade the little town like reign¬ 
ing powers.163 


XIX 



CONTENTS 


CHAPTER VIII 

THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

The Wayside begins to be hospitable in earnest, and Mr. 
Miller* the artist, talks unceasingly there. Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne describes her husband. Hawthorne visits the 
Isles of Shoals. Ex-President Pierce is insulted and 
bears it well. Hawthorne visits Brunswick College, and 
is welcorned back there. A talk on The Wayside hill. 
The Liverpool Consulate is given to Hawthorne, who 
visits Washington before embarking for England. De¬ 
scription of Hawthorne by his daughter Rose. The voy¬ 
age is described in a letter from Mrs. Hawthorne. Field 
Talfourd pleases her, especially. Mr. Henry Bright 
shines upon the family. Rose describes him. Mrs. 
Hawthorne writes to her father about him, his family at 
their home, and of English ways.. 


CHAPTER IX 

ENGLISH DAYS : I 

Hospitable English strangers make the American strangers 
welcome. An English mansion described by Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne. Liverpool organizations honor Hawthorne by 
attentions. The Squareys of Dacre Hill. Hawthorne’s 
unstinted friendliness towards Americans in distress. The 
De Quincey family greatly desire to see Hawthorne, Tick- 
nor says. Hawthorne meets the sons of Burns. Liscard 
Vale and its dinner-party described by Mrs. Hawthorne, 
who is.entertained by the magnificence and the characters 
richly gathered there. Mrs. Hawthorne tells her father 
about a visit to Chester on Sunday. The “ Westminster 
Review ” praises Hawthorne’s art. Distinguished Eng¬ 
lish people seek Hawthorne out. Mr. Martineau de¬ 
scribed by Mrs. Hawthorne. Mr. Bennoch’s first call 
upon the family. Miss Cushman visits the Hawthornes 
with her splendid geniality. Mrs. Hawthorne described 
by her daughter Rose. Hawthorne is hunted to gorgeous 

xx 


198 



CONTENTS 


dinners against his better instincts. Henry Bright more 
delightfully drives him to beautiful scenes. “The Scarlet 
Letter ” sells very largely in England, and is read. The 
Consulate is sighed over by Mrs. Hawthorne ...... 234 


CHAPTER X 

ENGLISH DAYS: II 

The Isle of Man is visited as if it were Fairyland. The 
Consulate is again described by Mrs. Hawthorne. Haw¬ 
thorne refuses to let two hundred shipwrecked American 
soldiers die in destitution, and charters a ship to send then* 
home, at some risk of personal bankruptcy. The death 
of Mrs. Hawthorne’s father is communicated to her by 
her husband. A letter from Una tells about the family 
and the scene of the country-side, and refers to Lenox 
pastimes. Visit of the family to Wales. Hawthorne 
goes to a dinner-party to meet Mr. Buchanan and Miss 
Lane. Hawthorne and Mrs. Hawthorne described by 
Rose. Hawthorne still reads aloud in the evenings. Let¬ 
ters from Hawthorne to Rose. His playfulness and gen¬ 
erous thought for his children noted. The home life of 
the family depicted, and also Mrs. Hawthorne’s energy 
of geniality. A sketch of Mr. Bennoch, and a letter 
from him. Lord Houghton and others try to bring 
Hawthorne to society by letter. The family go to Lon¬ 
don for the ostensible purpose of enjoying society, but 
Hawthorne is obliged to spend part of the time in Liver¬ 
pool. Mrs. Hawthorne writes to him of London and 
Henry Bright, who is there, and speaks of Miss Bacon’s 
genius...273 


CHAPTER XI 

ENGLISH DAYS: lit 

Mrs. Hawthorne’s letter to Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody de¬ 
scribes Wordsworth’s country. The family visit South- 
port for the Winter, for Mrs* Hawthorne’s health. A trip 

xxi 




CONTENTS 


to Manchester, for the Exhibition, includes a glimpse of 
Tennyson and his family. Mrs. Hawthorne carefully 
describes them. She refers to slavery with contempt. 
Hawthorne writes to Miss Elizabeth P. Peabody about 
her anti-slavery essay with frankest honesty and dis¬ 
taste, being importuned for his opinion. His estimate of 
Goodrich. A visit to Kenilworth by the family is por¬ 
trayed in a letter of Mrs. Hawthorne’s. English days in 
Leamington are quiet and economical, but always sug¬ 
gestive to imagination. A visit to a genuinely palatial 
hotel in Bath described by Mrs. Hawthorne. Redcar and 
Hawthorne’s enjoyment of it reproduced by descriptions 
and diaries. “ The Marble Faun ” worked out and finished 
in this seaport town. 


CHAPTER XII 

ITALIAN DAYS: I 

Rome has a superlative effect upon the family. Haw¬ 
thorne’s manner in the midst of the richest scene in 
history. A host of friends happen to congregate, at 
Carnival time. Miss Maria Mitchell, Miss Harriet Hos- 
mer, and Miss Elizabeth Hoar described. Una’s illness 
proves the true friendship of lifelong and new acquain¬ 
tances. C. G. Thompson and his studio sketched. Rome’s 
lasting charm for a little girl evident. 


CHAPTER XIII 

ITALIAN DAYS: II 

Six months in Florence. Mrs. Hawthorne’s letters con¬ 
tinue to catch and imprison the atmosphere of every 
scene. The castle of Montaiito fascinates the family. 
Catholicity penetrates the heart of both husband and 
wife, in spite of much armor. Stella humbly and silently 
expresses religious gentleness. Spiritualism introduces 
its clumsy morbidness to Mrs. Hawthorne in the pre¬ 
sence of the Brownings. Mr. and Mrs. Browning de- 

xxii 




CONTENTS 


scribed from the enthusiastic memory of a child. Mot¬ 
ley’s letter about “ Monte Beni ” is given. 


CHAPTER XIV 

THE WAYSIDE 

The Wayside welcomes the family to a life of simplicity, 
second-rate enjoyment, and sacrifice. Interesting minds 
working for humanity are the happy reward for a quiet 
life. Emerson, Alcott, Thoreau and Channing described. 
Visits to the Fields’s in Boston, where rare people are met. 
The Wayside, quiet as it is, is not quite out of the world, 
and friends and letters from abroad often follow Haw¬ 
thorne thither. One of Louisa Alcott’s jolly little poems. 
General Hitchcock is mentioned by Mrs. Hawthorne, 
who valued him among a group of finest minds. Con¬ 
cord life portrayed in Mrs. Hawthorne’s journals and let¬ 
ters. Hawthorne’s breaking health soon affects the fam¬ 
ily with half-admitted dread. President Lincoln becomes 
a verified ideal. 


CHAPTER XV 

THE ARTIST AT WORK 

Hawthorne’s habits of work are described, and his attitude 
of mind is guessed, by his daughter Rose. The “North 
British Review ” quoted upon Hawthorne’s art. His ef¬ 
forts to continue at his work unflinchingly, by means of 
exercise and hardihood. 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE LEAVE-TAKING 

Emerson and Longfellow write of their desire to be with 
Hawthorne in companionship. Dr. Holmes flashes joy¬ 
fully yet longingly as he speaks of Hawthorne’s personal- 
xxiii 





CONTENTS 

ity. Miss Elizabeth M. Hawthorne makes a visit to The 
Wayside, and her niece Rose tries to study her. Una’s 
lifelong love and admiration for her. Hawthorne’s de¬ 
voted care for her, which he bequeathed to his family. 
Mrs. Hawthorne expresses in a letter to a friend some of 
her vigorous and sublime principles of thought and action. 
Hawthorne’s death comes while he is away from his wife, 
but she is conscious of its presence . • • • . • « . 


455 



MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


CHAPTER I 

THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

To my lot have fallen sundry letters of my 
mother’s, received in youth by her sisters and 
friends, and by her husband and others in later 
life. I have often read over these magic little 
pictures of old days, and each time have felt less 
inclined to let them remain silently in the family. 
The letters are full of sunshine, which is not 
even yet in the least dimmed ; and there is a plea¬ 
sant chatter of persons of whom we have heard 
widely in the most refined atmosphere this coun¬ 
try knows. 

The scene surrounds a soul, my father’s, whose 
excellence grows more and more evident, and who 
enriches every incident and expression that comes 
in contact with him. The tone of the life de¬ 
picted is usually glad; but even where discomfort 
and sorrow break it, Hawthorne’s unflinching 
endurance suggests unsoured activity and a brave 
glance. 

I will preserve, as well as I can by selections, 

i 



MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the effect produced upon me by the many pack¬ 
ages of letters which I opened some years ago. 
What Hawthorne cared for is somewhat clearly 
shown by side-lights; and there is also some 
explanation from my mother, as unintentionally 
given as the rest, of why he cared. 

It was a genial and vivid existence which en¬ 
veloped her family always ; and it became an 
interesting problem to the Peabodys to entice 
the reticent Hawthornes into it, from the adja¬ 
cent Herbert Street,—by gentle degrees, well- 
adjusted baits, and affectionate compliments. 
Trout-fishing comes to mind, — and the trout 
were very skillful in keeping aloof. Neverthe¬ 
less, Hawthorne liked all he heard and saw at 
the Peabodys’ in Charter Street; and Sophia, 
his future wife, gleams near him as the unwit¬ 
ting guide to the warm contact with his kind 
for which he searched, though with delicacy of 
choice. 

Sophia’s mother had strong intellect and great 
refinement, as well as a strength of character 
which gave her the will to teach school for many 
years, while her own children were growing up. 
She was very well connected in various directions ; 
in other words, she had sprung from cultivated 
intelligences. 

Mrs. Peabody’s mother was the wife of Judge 
Cranch, of Boston, whose sister, the wife of Gen¬ 
eral Palmer, wrote to her in Revolutionary days 
the following letter, wherein very mild words stand 
for very strong emotions : — 

2 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 


Germantown, February 12, 1775. 

Dear Sister, — It is a long time since we 
have heard from you, except by transient reports 
that your family was pretty well. I suppose you 
are all anxious about publick affairs as well as 
other folks. ’T is a dreadful dull time for writ¬ 
ing ; this suspense that we are in seems to absorb 
every Faculty of the mind, especially in our sit¬ 
uation where we seldom see anybody from the 
busy world. 

Mr. Palmer has been gone a fortnight to Con¬ 
gress, and we have never heard a word from him. 
The folks are almost impatient to hear what they 
are about. 

Certainly we at this time want every motive of 
Religion to strengthen our souls and bear up our 
spirits, that we may not faint in the evil time. 
Why should not there be religious as well as Po¬ 
litical correspondencies ? I believe much good 
might be done by such means, as those who are 
sincerely good would be able to strengthen each 
other — oh dear ! I am so stupid ! I wonder whe¬ 
ther you feel so, too; but you have little ones 
about you that will keep you rousing. My Love 
to them all, together w th my Brother. 

Your affectionate sister, M. Palmer. 

Literature, art, and intercourse were the three 
gracious deities of the Peabody home, and many 
persons came to join the family in worshiping 
them ; so that the pages of all the letters and 
journals, from which but a fragmentary gleaning 
3 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

has been made, blossom daily with name after 
name of callers. Elizabeth was profoundly inter¬ 
esting, Mary was brilliant, and Sophia was lovely 
in her studio, to which everybody eagerly mounted. 
At about the time when I begin to levy upon the 
letters, the efforts of these young ladies to estab¬ 
lish common ground of friendship with the Haw¬ 
thornes peep forth in small messages, bequeathed 
to me by my recluse aunt Ebie Hawthorne. 

Elizabeth Peabody was the first and most fre¬ 
quent angler at the brookside, and actually suc¬ 
ceeded in establishing a sturdy friendship with 
the young author, who was being sought for by the 
best people in Salem. His mother and sisters, 
walks and books, were the principal factors in his 
capture by the admiring enemy. Elizabeth had 
already a high intercourse upon high themes with 
the best minds among manly American thought. 
Her perfect simplicity of motive and abandonment 
of selfish, vain effeminateness made her the de¬ 
light of the great men she met. She was a con¬ 
noisseur in this field. To such a genial cultivator 
of development it seemed folly for the women of 
the Hawthorne family so to conceal their value; 
it was positively non-permissible for the genius 
of the family to conceal his> and so this New 
World Walton fished him forth. She sends a note 
to Herbert Street: — 

My dear Mrs. Hawthorne, — I have taken 
the liberty to have your book bound before I re¬ 
turned it to you, as it was somewhat abused at the 

4 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

printing-office. And besides, I thought there 
should be some attempt at harmony between the 
outside and the inside; and more than that, I 
wanted in some slight degree to express my respect 
for it. How happy you must be in reading these 
tales ! For if the genius which produced them 
is independent of all source but the divine bounty, 
the holiness and virtue which breathe on every 
page may be fairly attributed to the sacred influ¬ 
ences of a pure New England home, in no small 
degree. But to enter upon the satisfactions of a 
mother in such a case I feel to be intruding upon 
consecrated ground. Yet you will easily pardon 
the feeling that impels me. 

With the greatest respect, yours, 

Elizabeth P. Peabody. 

My mother joins in the pursuit, though inter¬ 
ested only in catching a glimpse of the widow and 
the shy eldest daughter. It must have been worth 
many experiments to gently succeed in putting 
their skill in hiding to naught. She slaps a dainty 
fishing-line through the leaves : — 

My dear Elizabeth, — I send you a volume 
of Carlyle, lately published. It is well worth 
reading; and your mother — will she like to read 
it ? I shall charge Bridget to inquire how your 
mother's and Louisa’s headaches are. I should 
have gone myself to-day to ask, had not the wind 
been east. Won't you come to walk to-morrow 
afternoon with my mother, dear Elizabeth, and 
5 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


then I shall see you a few minutes ? I want very 
much to see you, and to show you a certain white 
vase filled with brilliant flowers, which would 
charm your eye. I hope you enjoyed the music 
last evening. 

Truly yours and Louisa’s, 

S. A. Peabody. 

I can imagine nothing more curious to the Pea- 
bodys than people who withdrew themselves from 
choice. My mother was often hidden, because 
of great delicacy of health, which her ardent pur¬ 
suance of art constantly fatigued ; but she saw so 
many people that there was scarcely a whole day 
of isolation. At the Hawthornes’, on the contrary, 
quiet prevailed: caused partly by bereavement, 
partly by proud poverty, and no doubt not a 
little by the witch-shadow of Judge Hawthorne’s 
unfortunate condemnation of Rebecca Nurse, 
whose dying curse was never ignored ; partly also 
by a sense of superiority, which, I think, was 
the skeleton in every Hawthorne’s body at that 
time. 

For a year one of the brothers at the Peabodys’, 
George, remained in his room, slowly dying from 
the effects of over-exertion in athletic sports. He 
was of large frame and of noble appearance, and 
was referred to by my mother in after-life with 
the deepest admiration. She writes : — 

“ It is difficult to realize how ill he is. He has 
none of the ways of sick people. His voice is as 
cheerful as ever, with no whine in its tones. He 
6 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

has no whims. He is always ready to smile, and 
reads constantly. . . . Mary and I spent the even¬ 
ing with the beloved one. He was pretty cheery, 
and told a comical anecdote of Dean Swift. He 
stood up on Friday much more firmly than for¬ 
merly. Elizabeth Hawthorne sent him Miss Mar- 
tineau’s book, after tea, which was certainly very 
kind and attentive in her. I am determined to go 
and see her this week. I spent the morning upon 
my bed, reading Herodotus. ... I found that 
mother had taken James and gone to Paradise 
after a hawthorne bush. It is a bush for which 
she has had a longing for several years, but never 
could get any kind friend to uproot it for her.” 

The highest principles of thought and action 
are constantly danced about and caressed by my 
mother in all her letters, as we imagine a Greek 
maiden paying cheerful homage to beautiful 
statues of the gods. For instance, in writing to 
the brother already mentioned, before his illness, 
she says: — 

“ I do not like to have you say that you enjoy 
despising people, George. It would be a little 
better to say you cannot help it sometimes ; 
and even that is a dangerous attitude of mind. 
It is better to sorrow over than to despise. You 
know, Wordsworth says, ‘He that feels contempt 
for any living thing hath faculties which he has 
never used.’ ” 

A message from Mary Peabody shows how in¬ 
timate Herbert and Charter streets were grow- 
ing: — 


7 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

My dear Elizabeth, — I am very sorfy to 
have been prevented from walking, but I hope to 
be able to go by Tuesday. George is fast grow¬ 
ing weaker, and we do not know what a day may 
bring forth. Still, I feel it is necessary to take 
exercise when I can. We do not tell all our 
fears to Sophia, whom we wish to keep cheerfully 
employed as long as we can. Will you ask your 
brother to dine with us to-morrow? Elizabeth 
[who was then teaching school in Boston] de¬ 
pends upon the pleasure of seeing him when she 
comes. We dine as early as twelve on Sunday. 

Yours very truly, 

Mary T. Peabody. 

From this point, the letters and fragments of 
journals bring to view what Hawthorne saw, and 
make real to us the woman he soon loved. 

Salem, October 22, 1832. 

I have been in old native Salem for ten days. 
Betty and I returned by seven o’clock to our 
minimum of a house, and upon entering I really 
felt a slight want of breath to find the walls so 
near together and the ceiling nearly upon my 
head. But there stood my beloved mother, all 
in white, her face radiant with welcome and love, 
and in her arms there was no want of room. In 
September or October I live par excellence. I 
feel in the abstract just as an autumn leaf looks. 

I step abroad from my clay house, and become 
8 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 


a part of the splendor and claritude and vigor 
around. 

Dear Betty, — I forgot to tell you that 
mother’s garden has been arranged. She is 
quite happy in it. Father presided over a man 
as he uprooted and planted. The man was quite 
an original. He came looking very nice, very 
gentlemanly, in broadcloth and cambric cravat. 
But after disappearing into the barn for several 
minutes, he came forth transformed into a dirty 
workman, though still somewhat distinguished 
by his figure and air. He expressed himself in 
very courtly phrase, also, and was quite senti¬ 
mental about the shrubbery round the tombs. 
[A graveyard was close to the house.] I should 
much like to know the history of his mind and 
career. . . . The clematis which climbs into my 
window is all sprouting. My glorious tree — my 
hieroglyphic for the everlasting forests — is also 
putting forth leaves, and the robins sing among 
the branches. 

Ellen Barstow came with an exquisite crimson 
rose for me, which she wished to present herself; 
and as I was lying down, she went away to come 
again. So towards tea-time I saw her and. 
Augusta running along. Ellen discovered me at: 
the window, and shouted and flew on. As they" 
were ascending the stairs I heard Ellen say, 
“Now hold your hand behind you, Augusta!” 
They entered with hands concealed and gleam¬ 
ing faces, and when they were within reach sud- 
9 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

denly the concealed hands were thrust towards 
my face, each adorned with a crimson rose. My 
exclamation of delight seemed to fulfill their de¬ 
sires ; and now I want to know if it is not worth 
fifteen years of bodily pain and discomfort to be 
the cause of such divine sentiment in the souls 
of so many children as I am ? I feel perfectly 
consecrated by it, and bound over to be worthy 
of such pure emotions. Oh, not mysterious Pro¬ 
vidence ! How even are thy golden scales — 
sweetest compensations poising exactly the ills! 
It is not suffering which I think beautiful or 
•desirable, but what suffering brings along with it, 
and causes. My door was open, and who should 
unexpectedly come out of Mary’s room but Miss 
Elizabeth Hawthorne, going to walk with Mary. 
I was very glad to see her, and wanted her to 
•come into my studio, but Mary was in haste to 
be walking. Miss Hawthorne looked very inter¬ 
esting. They had a delightful ramble, and she 
sent me a bunch of seaweed fastened to a rock, 
which she stepped into the sea to get for me. It 
looks like a drooping plume if it is held up, and 
1 went into George’s room to get his admiration; 
but he persisted in declaring it hideous. I was 
jdelighted by her thinking of sending it to me. 

I happened to be up in the third story just as 
the children were going home [Mary was teach¬ 
ing two or three little girls], and they went into 
my studio with Mary. I was very much im¬ 
pressed with what I heard said in tones of rever¬ 
ence. “ Look at that hammock ! Ok, that pic- 
io 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

ture ! And there are the flowers ! Oh, / gave 
her those! Miss Peabody, is that a bed? Oh, 
how beautifully everything looks! Is Sophia 
gone out ? ” I cannot convey to you the intona¬ 
tions of affection and interest which made these 
sentences so touching. 

This morning Mary came in and threw at me 
a beautiful handful of flowers, which I crowed 
over for a time, and then arose. I worked a little 
while at my painting, and then Mary Channing 
came gliding in upon me, like a dream, with 
more flowers, the Scotch rose and many rare 
things among them. Mr. Doughty [the artist, 
who had consented to give Sophia lessons] came, 
as bright as possible. The cool breezes, the flow¬ 
ers, etc., put him into excellent humor. He said 
it was luxury to sit and paint here. He created 
a glowing bank in broad sunshine. Mr. Russell 
called, and came up into my studio. He thought 
such a studio and such an occupation must cure 
the headache. Then I prepared to make several 
calls, but on my way was arrested by Mr. George 
Hillard, who was altogether too agreeable to 
leave. He is amazingly entertaining, to be sure. 
He remarked what a torment of his life Mr. 
Reed, the postmaster in Cambridge, was. He 
is an old man, about a hundred and forty years 
old, who always made him think of the little end 
of nothing sharpened off into a point. He had 
but one joke — to tell people sometimes when 
they asked for a letter that they must pay half a 
dollar for it; and then, if in their simplicity they 
ii 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

gave it, he would laugh, and say it was a joke. 
After Mr. Hillard went away, Sally Gardiner 
came in with an armful of roses, which she poured 
upon me, taken from Judge Jackson’s garden. 
She had just returned from Milton, and was over¬ 
flowing with its grandeur and beauty. 

Yours affectionately, 

Sophie. 

The somewhat invalided little artist was highly 
and widely admired; and to illustrate the happy 
fact I quote this letter, written by her spirited 
sister Mary : — 

Boston, June 19, 1833. 

My Dearest, — I went to Dr. Channing’s 
yesterday afternoon and carried him your draw¬ 
ings, with which he was so enchanted that I left 
them for him to look at again. He gathered him¬ 
self up in a little striped cloak, and all radiant 
with that soul of his, said with his most divine 
inflection, “ This is a great and noble undertak¬ 
ing, and will do much for us here.” And then 
he rolled his orbs upon me in that majestic way 
of his, which, when it melts into loveliness as it 
sometimes does, so takes captivity captive. In 
short, he was quite in an ecstasy with you and 
your notions. [Probably drawings illustrating 
auxiliary verbs.] He inquired very particularly 
for you, and showed me all the new books he 
had just received from England, which he thought 
a great imposition, they being big books. Edward 
[his brother] came in, and they greeted affection- 
12 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

ately. After a long survey of the Professor, he 
exclaimed, “Why, Edward, you look gross — 
take care of the intellect! ” Then he handed 
him one of the great books, just arrived, which 
was an edition of Thomas Belsham’s works, with 
a likeness of the author. “There,” said he, “is 
a man who had not quite the dimensions of a 
hogshead ; but he was the largest man I ever 
saw.” Edward looked rather uneasy. “ William,” 
he replied, “ I don’t think you are any judge of 
large men. Last week I looked quite thin, but 
to-day my head and face are very much swelled.” 
The Doctor, in the simplicity of his heart, never 
thinks of feelings, only of things, as Plato would 
say. Your affectionate sister, 

Mary. 

Sophia writes to Elizabeth in Boston, in 1838, 
of her daily life, as follows : — 

“ I went to my hammock [in the studio] with 
Xenophon. Socrates was divinest, after Jesus 
Christ, I think. He lived up to his thought. . . . 
After dinner, Mary went out ‘ to take the fresh,’ 
intending to finish the afternoon by a walk with 
Miss Hawthorne, and I commissioned her to 
bring home both her and her brother, if he should 
go, that I might give him my fragrant violets. . . . 

“ Miss Hawthorne came to walk, and remarked 
to Mary how beautiful the crocuses were which I 
had given to her brother. Mary told her that I 
sent them to her. i That is a pretty story,’ she 
replied ‘ He never told me so.’ 

13 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

“Just after seven Mr. Hawthorne came. He 
looked very brilliant. . . . His coming here is one 
sure way of keeping you in mind, and it must be 
excessively tame for him after his experience of 
your society and conversation; so that, I think, 
you will shine the more by contrast.” 

One evening, she says, she “ showed him Sarah 
Clarke’s picture of the island, and that gorgeous 
flower in the Chinese book of which there is a 
mighty tree in Cuba. And then I turned over 
the pictures of those hideous birds, which diverted 
him exceedingly. One he thought deserved 
study. . . . 

“ I was to go to see his sister Elizabeth that 
afternoon, and he had heard about it. He asked 
if I could go, and said he should have waited for 
me to come if he had not supposed the east wind 
would prevent me. I said that it would. He 
wanted to know if I would come the next day. 
I meant to call Mary, but he prevented me by 
saying he could not stay long enough. ... [He 
seldom stayed unless he found Sophia alone.] 

“ Last evening Mr. Hawthorne came for Mary 
to go with him to Miss Burley’s [to a club which 
met every week]. Mary could not go. It seemed 
a shame to refuse him. I came down to catch a 
glimpse of him. He has a celestial expression 
which I do not like to lose. . . . 

“The children have just come in, and brought 
me a host of odorous violets. I made George a 
visit in the afternoon, in the midst of my battle 
with headache, and to my question of ‘How 
14 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 


dost ? ’ he replied, for the first time, * Pretty fair,' 
instead of the unvarying ‘Middling.’ Skeptics 
surely cannot disbelieve in one thing that is invisi¬ 
ble, and that is Pain.” 

May, 1838. 

After my siesta I went down to Herbert Street 
with the book I wished to leave, and when I 
opened the gate [of the Hawthornes’ house] the 
old woman with her hood on [an aunt of the Haw¬ 
thornes] was stooping over a flower-bed, planting 
seeds. She lifted her smiling face, which must 
have been very pretty in her youth, and said, 
“ How do you do, Miss Peabody ? ” Yet I never 
saw her in my life before. She begged me to 
walk in, but I refused, and gave her my message 
of thanks for the book. 

Ever thine wholly, 

SOPHIECHEN. 


May 14, 1838. 

To-day I was tempted to trot about the room 
and arrange all my vases, and give an air to the 
various knickknacks. I am much more easily tired 
than ever before. My walk to Castle Hill before 
February did not make me feel so hopelessly 
tired as it now does to walk as far as the Haw¬ 
thornes’. Mr. Hawthorne had declined to come 
to dine with you on your arrival, but was to be 
here directly after dinner. When he came I hap¬ 
pened to be the only one ready to go down. His 
first question was, “Where is Elizabeth?” He 
was not at all inclined to bear the disappointment 
*5 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

of your not being here, after all. He thought it 
“too bad,” “insufferable,” “not fair,” and won¬ 
dered what could be the reason. I told him your 
excuse, and that there was a letter for him, which 
Mary soon brought. He put it into his pocket 
without breaking the seal. He looked very hand¬ 
some, and was full of smiles. I assured him the 
morning was the best time to do creative work. 
He said he believed he would go and take a walk 
in South Salem. “ Won’t you go ? ” he asked of 
me. But the wind was east. 

My dear Lizzie, — I can think of nothing 
now but Charles Emerson. A sudden gloom 
seems to overshadow me. I hope you will tell us 
to-morrow whether he is dangerously ill. We had 
an exquisite visit from Waldo. It was the war¬ 
bling of the Attic bird. The gleam of his dif¬ 
fused smile; the musical thunder of his voice; 
his repose, so full of the essence of life; his 
simplicity — just think of all these, and of my 
privilege in seeing and hearing him. He enjoyed 
everything we showed him so much. He talked 
so divinely to Raphael’s Madonna del Pesce. I 
vainly imagined I was very quiet all the while, 
preserving a very demure exterior, and supposed 
I was sharing his oceanic calm. But the next 
day I was aware that I had been in a very intense 
state. I told Mary, that night after he had gone, 
that I felt like a gem ; that was the only way I 
could express it. I don’t know what Mary hoped 
to get from him, but / was sure of drinking in 
16 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

that which would make me paint Cuban skies 
better than even my recollections could have made 
me, were they as vivid as the rays of the sun in 
that sunniest of climates. He made me feel as 
Eliza Dwight did once, when she looked uncom¬ 
monly beautiful and animated. I felt as if her 
beauty was all about the room, and that I was in 
it, and therefore beautiful too. It seemed just 
so with Waldo’s soul-beauty. Good-by, 

Sophy. 

June I, 1838. 

One afternoon Elizabeth Hawthorne came to 
walk with Mary, and mother went with her in¬ 
stead. She first came up into my chamber, and 
seemed well pleased with it, but especially ad¬ 
mired the elm-tree outside. She looked very 
interesting. Mother took her to the cold spring, 
and they did not return till just at dark, loaded 
with airy anemones and blue violets and a few 
columbines. They had found Mr. John King 
and his daughter at the spring, looking for wild- 
flowers, and mother introduced Miss Hawthorne; 
but she hung her head and scarcely answered, 
and did not open her lips again, though Mr. King 
accompanied them all the way home. He gave 
mother some columbines, and after a while said, 
“I must make your bunch like Mrs. Peabody’s, 
my dear,” and so put some more into Miss Haw¬ 
thorne’s hand. 

The day before Mr. Hawthorne had called at 
noon to see our ladyships, and I never saw him 

17 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

look so brilliantly rayonnant. He said to me, 

Your story will be finished soon, Sophia — to¬ 
morrow or next day.” I was surprised to have 
the story so appropriated, and I do long to see 
it. [Probably Edward Randolph’s Portrait.] He 
proposed to Mary to go to the beach the same 
day, and she consented. He said that he had 
not spoken to his sister about it, but would do 
so as soon as he went home. He wished to go 
early, and have a good walk. Only think what 
progress ! To come and propose a walk at mid¬ 
day ! 

He said he had a letter nearly written to you, 
but should not finish it till you wrote. He seemed 
quite impatient to hear from you, and remarked 
that he had not heard since you were here. 
Mary went to Herbert Street to join Miss Haw¬ 
thorne for the walk, but did not see her. Her 
mother said Elizabeth did not want to go be¬ 
cause it was windy, and the sun was too hot, and 
clouds were in the south! (It was the loveliest 
day in the world.) Was it not too bad to disap¬ 
point her brother so ? I could have whipped her. 
When Mary went the next day with the tulips, 
Louisa told her that Elizabeth was very sorry 
afterwards that she did not go. 

A successful visit, almost accidental, upon Ebie 
Hawthorne pleased Sophia very much, and she 
writes: — 

“ She was very agreeable, and took the trouble 
to go and get some engravings of heads to show 
18 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 


me, Wordsworth among the number, which I had 
never seen before. 

“ Elizabeth also inquired particularly for George, 
and gave me more books for him. She asked if 
we did not miss you exceedingly. I should like 
to have stayed for two or three hours. She came 
downstairs with me, and out of the door, and 
talked about the front yard, where her aunt is 
going to make a garden.” 

Elizabeth Peabody’s letters are always delight¬ 
fully direct, and varied in quality of emotion, 
being equally urgent over philosophy or daily 
bread, as the ensuing one will show in part: — 

53 Myrtle Street, Boston, 1838. 

My dear Sophia, — Your beautiful letters 
require an answer, but I cannot possibly answer 
them in kind. This evening, notwithstanding 
the storm, George and Susan Hillard have gone 
to a singing-school, and left me to amuse myself. 
I hoped Mr. Hawthorne would come in. I have 
not seen him yet. Last night I took tea with 
Sally Gardiner and Miss Jackson, who are still 
enjoying your Flaxman drawings. Why do not 
you Salem folks have a hencoop and keep hens! 
five or six hens would overwhelm you with eggs 
all the year round. I like to hear the little items 
about Hawthorne. I had a nice talk with Mr. 
Capen about him to-day. He has him in his 
mind, and I hope it will come to some good pur¬ 
pose for the public. 

Yours truly and ever, 

19 


E. P. P. 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


Sophia writes : — 

July 23, 1838. 

William White arrived on Saturday. Why did 
not you send Stuart’s Athens by him ? He said 
that he had heard it remarked that Mr. Emerson 
expected another Messiah. Your slight account 
of Mr. E.’s “Address” is enough to wake the 
dead, and I do not know what the original utter¬ 
ance must have done. I told Mary I thought Mr. 
Emerson was the Word again. She exclaimed, 
“You blasphemer!” “Do you really think it 
blasphemy ? ” said I. “ Oh no,” she replied. “ It 
is the gospel according to you .” Was not that 
a happy saying ? While the maid was at Miss 
Burley’s on an errand, she saw Mr. Hawthorne 
enter, probably for a take-leave call. He was 
here also, looking radiant. He said he took up 
my Journal [written in Cuba] to bring it back, but 
my “ works were so voluminous that he concluded 
to send them! ” 

Elizabeth Peabody makes, upon her return to 
Salem for the winter, an heroic move towards 
gaining a still more affectionate advantage over 
the solitaries in Herbert Street. A little smile 
must have given her face its most piquant expres¬ 
sion as she wrote : — 

Saturday, November 10, 1838. 

Dear Louisa, — You know I want to knit 
those little stockings and shoes, — I think I will 
do it in the course of time at your house , — and 
would thank you to buy the materials for me, and 
20 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

I will pay you what they cost, when I know what 
it is. I suppose the four or five evenings which 
I shall anticipate spending with you (in the course 
of the winter!) will complete the articles. 

When Elizabeth wakes, please give her this note 
and rose and book; and when Nathaniel comes 
to dinner please give him the note I wrote to 
him. He said he was going to write to-day, and 
therefore I should prefer that he should not be 
interrupted on purpose to read it. We will not 
interrupt the bird in his song. I wonder what 
sort of a preparation he finds an evening of whist, 
for the company of the Muse ! 

Yours ever truly, 

E. P. Peabody. 

It is delightful to picture the commotion in the 
fernlike seclusion which enveloped the women of 
the Hawthorne household when this note was 
opened and read. Squirrels aroused, owls awak¬ 
ened, foxes startled, would have sympathized. 
Louisa, the only really active member of the trio, 
wonderfully deft in finest sewing and embroidery, 
generously willing to labor for all the relatives 
when illness required, may not have felt faint or 
fierce. But Mrs. Hawthorne, even in the covert 
of her chamber, where she chiefly resided, no 
doubt drew back; and Elizabeth’s beautiful eyes 
must have shone superbly. However, to prove 
that the trio among the ferns (guarding, as testi¬ 
mony proves, Hawthorne himself with unasked 
care) could serve the needs of others on occasion, 
21 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


I will insert a little letter of a much earlier date, 
from Louisa. 

TO MISS MARY MANNING, RAYMOND, MAINE, CARE OF 
RICHARD MANNING, ESQ. 

Salem, March 3, 1831. 

My dear Aunt, — Uncle Sammie has re¬ 
turned from Boston, and has taken up his abode 
for the present at uncle Robert’s [his brother, 
who befriended Hawthorne in his early youth], 
and is much better than we expected to see him. 
We should have been glad to have him with us, 
and would have done everything in our power 
to make him happy. We are so near that he can 
at any time command our services and our com¬ 
pany. Nathaniel goes in to see him, and I am 
there a great part of the time. Mother has kept 
about all winter. There have been worse storms 
than I ever remember ; the roads were absolutely 
impassable, and the snow-banks almost as high 
as the house. I would write more, but my time 
is much taken up now. I remain yours, 

With much affection, 

M. L. Hathorne. 

That the reluctance to be genial with very 
genial folk was bravely overcome (to some ex¬ 
tent) the ensuing notes prove : — 

Dear Elizabeth, — As you were out on 
Saturday evening, I hope you will be able to 
come and spend to-morrow evening with us — will 
22 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PE‘ABODYS 

you not? I should be extremely happy to see 
Mary, though I despair of it; and though I can¬ 
not venture to ask Sophia, perhaps you can for 
me. Pray tell me particularly how your father 
is; we are all anxious to hear; and whether 
George is as he was when we heard last. 

I am, in haste, E. M. H. 

Dear Elizabeth, — Shall we go to the beach ? 
If so, I propose that we set off instanter. I 
think a sea-breeze would be most refreshing this 
afternoon. Truly yours, 

M. T. P. 

Don’t forget to ask your brother. 

My dear E., — I am afraid I shall not be able 
to go and spend an evening with you while the 
girls are gone. To-morrow, you know, is the 
eclipse. I wish you would come here in the after¬ 
noon. The graveyard is an open place to see it 
from, and I should be very glad of your com¬ 
pany. Yesterday I heard of Nathaniel. A gen¬ 
tleman was shut up with him on a rainy day in a 
tavern in Berkshire, and was perfectly charmed 
with his luck. In haste, yours, 

E. P. P. 

By and by Elizabeth Peabody returns to Bos¬ 
ton, and Sophia goes on with letters : — 

I do not think I am subject to my imagina¬ 
tion ; I can let an idea go to the grave that I see 
23 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

is false. When I am altogether true to the light 
I have, I shall be in the heaven where the an¬ 
gelic Very now is. I went to see dear Miss Bur¬ 
ley, who sent for me to go to her room. She 
insisted upon accompanying me all the way down¬ 
stairs, limping painfully, and would open the 
outer door for me, and bow me out with as much 
deference as if I had been Victoria, or Haw¬ 
thorne himself! So much for the Word uttering 
itself through my fingers in the face of Ilbrahim. 
[She had just finished illustrating “The Gentle 
Boy” by a drawing which was greatly praised.] 
Jones Very came to tea that afternoon. He was 
troubled at first, but we comforted him with sym¬ 
pathy. His conversation with George was divine, 
and such level rays of celestial light as beamed 
from his face upon George, every time he looked 
up at him, were lovely to behold. We told him 
of our enjoyment of his sonnets. He smiled, and 
said that, unless we thought them beautiful be¬ 
cause we also heard the Voice in reading them, 
they would be of no avail. “ Since I have shown 
you my sonnets,” said he to me, “I think you 
should show me your paintings.” Mary brought 
my drawing-book and “ ^Eschylus ” [wonderfully 
perfect drawings from Flaxman’s illustrations]. 
He deeply enjoyed all. I told him of my Ilbrahim. 
He said he delighted in the “Twice-Told Tales.” 
Yesterday Mr. Hawthorne came in, and said, “I 
am going to Miss Burley’s, but you must not go. 
It is too cold. You certainly must not go.” I 
assured him I should go, and was sorry I was not 
24 


THE HAWTHORNES AND THE PEABODYS 

wanted. He laughed, and said I was not. But 
I persisted. He knew I should be made sick ; 
that it was too cold. Meanwhile I put on an 
incalculable quantity of clothes. Father kept 
remonstrating, but not violently, and I gently 
imploring. When I was ready, Mr. Hawthorne 
said he was glad I was going. Mary was packed 
up safely, also. I was very animated, and felt 
mtich better than on either of the previous club 
nights. Mr. Hawthorne declared it must be the 
spirit of contradiction that made me so; and I 
told him it was nothing but fact. We walked 
quite fast, for I seemed stepping on air. It was 
partly because I had not got tired during the day. 
It was splendid moonlight. I was not in the least 
cold, except my thumb and phiz. Mr. H. said he 
should have done admirably were it not for his 
nose. He did not believe but that it would mod¬ 
erate, “ For God tempers the wind to the shorn 
lamb, and when you go out we may expect mild 
weather! ” Was not that sweet ? Mr. H. and 
I went into the parlor together, and Miss Burley 
looked delighted. He was exquisitely agreeable, 
and talked a great deal , and looked serene and 
happy and exceedingly beautiful. Miss Burley 
showed Mary and me some botanical specimens, 
and he came to the table and added much to the 
lights. But oh, we missed you so much; Miss 
Burley said so, and I felt it. They do not under¬ 
stand Very, there. When we were taking leave, 
Mr. Howes said to Mr. Hawthorne that he hoped 
nothing would prevent his coming next Saturday. 

25 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

“ Oh no,” replied he. “ It is so much a custom, 
now, that I cannot do without it.” Was not that 
delightful for Miss Burley’s ears ? I was so glad 
he said it. When we came out it was much more 
moderate, and we got home very comfortably. 
Mr. H. said he thought of coming for me to walk 
on Friday, but was afraid the walking was not 
good enough. I told him how we were all disap¬ 
pointed at his vanishing that night, and he laughed 
greatly. He said he should not be able to come 
this evening to meet Very, because he had some¬ 
thing to read, for he was engaged Monday and 
Tuesday evening and could not read then. I am 
so sorry. 

Yours affectionately, Sophie. 

26 


CHAPTER II 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

The engagement of Hawthorne to his future 
wife was now a fact, but it was not spoken of ex¬ 
cept to one or two persons. Sophia had slipped 
away for a visit to friends in Boston ; but as Eliz¬ 
abeth was at present in Newton, her letters to 
the latter continued as follows : — 

West Street, Boston, May 19, 1839. 

Dearest Lizzie, — Two days ago Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne came. He said that there was nothing to 
which he could possibly compare his surprise, to 
find that the bird had flown when he went to our 
house. He said he sat for half an hour in the 
parlor before he knocked to announce his pre¬ 
sence, feeling sure I would know he was there, 
and descend, — till at last he was tired of waiting. 
“Oh, it was terrible to find you gone,” he said. 
And it was such a loss, to be sure, to me not to 
see him. I am glad you enjoyed his visit so 
much. He told me he should be at the picture- 
gallery the next morning [Sophia went very early 
to avoid the crowd], and there I found him at 
eight o’clock. He came home with me through 
a piercing east wind, which he was sure would 
make me ill for a week. In the evening he came 
27 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

to see if it had given me a cold, but it had not. 
Caroline [Tappan] was busy with her children, 
and did not come down for half an hour. When 
she did, she was very agreeable, and so was Mr. 
Hawthorne. She admired him greatly. He said 
he should be at the gallery this morning, if possi¬ 
ble. I went before eight, and found the room 
empty, except for Mr. William Russell. Mr. H. 
arrived at nine, for, as it was cloudy weather 
until then, he thought I would not be there, and 
he came with the sunshine. At ten it began to 
grow crowded, and we went out. He peremp¬ 
torily declared I should ride. 

Washington Allston had a great regard for 
Sophia’s talent in art. Elizabeth refers to it in a 
letter written while visiting the Emersons : — 

Concord, Mass., June 23. 1839. 

Here I am on the Mount of Transfiguration, 
but very much in the condition of the disciples 
when they were prostrate in the dust. I got ter¬ 
ribly tired in Boston. I went to the Athenaeum 
Gallery on Monday morning, and in the evening 
Hawthorne came and said that he went to the 
Allston gallery on Saturday afternoon. I went 
to Allston’s on Tuesday evening. He was in 
delightful spirits, but soft as a summer evening. 
He seemed transported with delight on hearing 
of your freedom from pain, and was eager to know 
what you were going to paint. I said you had 
several things a-going, but did not like to tell of 
28 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

your plans. He said, then you would be more 
likely to execute them, and that it was a good 
thing to have several paintings at once, because 
that would save time, as you could rest yourself 
by change. I carried to him a volume of “ Twice- 
Told Tales,” to exchange for mine. He said he 
thirsted for imaginative writing, and all the family 
had read the book with great delight. I am really 
provoked that I did not bring “The Token” 
with me, so as to have “ The Mermaid ” and “ The 
Haunted Mind ” to read to people. I was hardly 
seated here, after tea yesterday, before Mr. Em¬ 
erson asked me what I had to say of Hawthorne, 
and told me that Mr. Bancroft said that Haw¬ 
thorne was the most efficient and best of the Cus¬ 
tom House officers. Pray tell that down in Her¬ 
bert Street. Mr. Emerson seemed all congenial 
about him, but has not yet read his writings. He 
is in a good mood to do so, however, and I intend 
to bring him to his knees in a day or two, so that 
he will read the book, and all that Hawthorne has 
written. He is in a delightful state of mind ; not 
yet rested from last winter’s undue labors, but 
keenly industrious. He has uttered no heresies 
about Mr. Allston, but only beautiful things,— 
dwelling, however, on his highest merits least. 
He says Very forbids all correcting of his verses ; 
but nevertheless he [Emerson] selects and com¬ 
bines with sovereign will, “and shall,” he says, 
“make out quite a little gem of a volume.” 
“But,” says he, “Hawthorne says he [Very] is 
always vain. I find I cannot forget that dictum 
29 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

which you repeated; but it is continually con¬ 
firmed by himself, amidst all his sublimities." 
And then he repeated some of Very’s speeches, 
and told how he dealt with him. I am very 
stupid. I have been awake for about two months! 
Mr. Emerson is very luminous, and wiser than 
ever. Oh, he is beautiful, and good, and great! 

Your sister, E. 

Sophia, once more in Salem, replies : — 

June 29, 1839. 

I am very sorry you were disappointed by not 
meeting Mr. Hawthorne at the galleries. But I 
am delighted that you saw Mr. Allston. How 
kind and inspiring is his interest about my health. 
I am rejoiced that Mr. Emerson has uttered no 
heresies about our High Priest of Nature. For 
him to think that because a man is born to-day 
instead of yesterday he cannot move the soul 
seems quite inconsistent with his proclamation 
that “ the sun shines to-day, also ! ” 

When some other callers had departed, came 
Mr. Hawthorne. It was a powerful east wind, 
and he would not let me go out; but we were 
both so virtuous that he went alone to Miss Bur¬ 
ley’s. You never can know what a sacrifice that 
was ! If you could, you would never again accuse 
either of us of disregard of the claims of others. 
I told him what Mr. Bancroft said, and he blushed 
deeply, and replied, “What fame!’’ After he 
went away, I read “Bettina von Arnim.’’ She 
is not to be judged; she is to be received and 
30 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

believed. She is genius, life, love, inspiration. If 
anybody undertakes to criticise her before me, I 
intend to vanish, if it is from a precipice into the 
sea. Tuesday, my Demon called upon me to draw 
some of the Auxiliary Verbs. . . . 

July 5. Yesterday was the great day, and this 
wretched town made no appropriations for cele¬ 
brating it — not even for the ringing of bells. So 
the people in wrath hung flags at half-mast, and 
declared they would toll the bells. Then it was 
granted that there should be joyful ringing at 
noon and sunset. They pealed forth jubilantly, 
and I heard the clash of cymbals in the afternoon. 
Every soul in America should thrill on the anni¬ 
versary of the most illustrious event in all history ; 
and as some souls sleep, these should be stirred 
with bells, trumpets, and eloquence. 

To-day the Demon demanded the completion 
of St. George and Una; and, alternating with 
my music, I drew all the morning. A horse has 
leaped out of my mind. I wonder what those 
learned in horses would say to him. George says 
he is superb. My idea was to have St. George’s 
whole figure express the profoundest repose, com¬ 
mand, and self-involvedness, while the horse should 
be in most vivid action and motion, the glory of 
his nostrils terrible, “ as much disdaining to the 
curb to yield.” The foam of power, and the still¬ 
ness of power. You must judge if I have suc¬ 
ceeded. The figure of Una is now far better than 
the first one. You cannot imagine with what ease 
I draw ; I feel as if I could and might do anything, 

31 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

now. Next week, if Outlines do not prevail, I 
shall begin again with oils. I feel on a height. 
Oh, I am so happy ! But I have not ridden horse¬ 
back since Tuesday on account of the weather. 
Is it not well that I kept fast hold of the white 
hand of Hope, dear Betty ? For behold where 
she has led me ! My wildest imaginations, during 
my hours of sickness in the past, never could have 
compassed such a destiny. All my life long my 
word has been, ‘‘This is well, and to-morrow it 
will be better ; and God knows when to bring that 
morrow.” You mistake me if you thought I ever 
believed that we should not be active for others . 
That is of course. With regard to our own minds, 
it seems to me we should take holy care of the 
present moment, and leave the end to God. 

Now I am indeed made deeply conscious of 
what it is to be loved. Most tunefully sweet is 
this voice which affirms ever, for negation be¬ 
longs to this world only. Its breath so informs 
the natural body that the spiritual body begins 
to plume its wings within, and I seem appareled 
in celestial light. 

A few paragraphs from letters written by Haw¬ 
thorne follow : — 

Six o’clock, P. M. 

What a wonderful vision that is — the dream ■ 
angel. I do esteem it almost a miracle that your 
pencil should unconsciously have produced it ; it 
is as much an apparition of an ethereal being as 
if the heavenly face and form had been shadowed 
32 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

forth in the air, instead of upon paper. It seems 
to me that it is our guardian angel, who kneels 
at the footstool of God, and is pointing to us upon 
earth, and asking earthly and heavenly blessings 
for us, — entreating that we may not be much 
longer divided, that we may sit by our own fire¬ 
side. . . . 

Boston, September 9, half past eight p. m., 1839. 

I was not at the end of Long Wharf to-day, 
but in a distant region; my authority having 
been put in requisition to quell a rebellion of the 
captain and “ gang ” of shovelers aboard a coal- 
vessel. . . . Well — I have conquered the rebels, 
and proclaimed an amnesty; so to-morrow I shall 
return to that Paradise of Measures, the end of 
Long Wharf. Not to my former salt-ship, she 
being now discharged ; but to another, which will 
probably employ me wellnigh a fortnight longer. 
The salt is white and pure — there is something 
holy in salt. 

Boston, 1839. 

Your wisdom is not of the earth ; it has passed 
through no other mind, but gushes fresh and 
pure from your own, and therefore I deem my¬ 
self the safer when I receive your outpourings 
as a revelation from Heaven. Not but what you 
have read, and tasted deeply, no doubt, of the 
thoughts of other minds ; but the thoughts of 
other minds make no change in your essence, as 
they do in almost everybody else’s essence. You 
are still sweet Sophie Hawthorne, and still your 
33 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

soul and intellect breathe forth an influence like 
that of wildflowers, to which God, not man, 
gives all their sweetness. ... If the whole world 
had been ransacked for a name, I do not think 
that another could have been found to suit you 
half so well. It is as sweet as a wildflower. 
You ought to have been born with that very 
name—only then I should have done you an 
irreparable injury by merging it in my own. 

You are fitly expressed to my soul’s apprehen¬ 
sion by those two magic words — Sophia Haw¬ 
thorne ! I repeat them to myself sometimes; 
and always they have a new charm. I am afraid 
I do not write very clearly, having been pretty 
hard at work since sunrise. You are wiser than 
I, and will know what I have tried to say. . . . 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

Their engagement was not announced for about 
a year, because it was expected that it would be 
a very long one; and also to avoid, for as great 
an interval as possible, causing consternation in 
Herbert Street, since there, the approach of any 
permanent change on Hawthorne’s part from a 
quiet sojourn under shadows and through en- 
chantingly mellowed lights was looked upon as a 
Waterloo. 

I go back a little from the last date to give the 
following fragment of a diary, contained in a small 
leather-bound memorandum-book, marked on the 
cover “ Scrap-Book, 1839.” The period covered 
is a brief portion of Hawthorne’s service as 
34 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 


weigher and gauger in the Boston Custom House, 
a position to which he was appointed by George 
Bancroft, at that time collector of the port. 

February 7, 1839. Yesterday and day before, 
measuring a load of coal from the schooner 
Thomas Lowder, of St. John, N. B. A little, 
black, dirty vessel. The coal stowed in the hold, 
so as to fill the schooner full, and make her a 
solid mass of black mineral. The master. Best, a 
likely young man ; his mate a fellow jabbering in 
some strange gibberish, English I believe — or 
nearer that than anything else — but gushing out 
all together — whole sentences confounded into 
one long, unintelligible word. Irishmen shoveling 
the coal into the two Custom House tubs, to be 
craned out of the hold, and others wheeling it 
away in barrows, to be laden into wagons. The 
first day, I walked the wharf, suffering not a little 
from cold; yesterday, I sat in the cabin whence 
I could look through the interstices of the bulk¬ 
head, or whatever they call it, into the hold. My 
eyes, what a cabin! Three paces would more 
than measure it in any direction, and it was filled 
with barrels, not clean and new, but black, and 
containing probably the provender of the vessel; 
jugs, firkins, the cook’s utensils and kitchen fur¬ 
niture— everything grimy and sable with coal 
dust. There were two or three tiers of berths; 
and the blankets, etc., are not to be thought of. 
A cooking stove, wherein was burning some of 
the coal — excellent fuel, burning as freely as 
wood, and without the bituminous melting of 
35 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Newcastle coal. The cook of the vessel, a grimy, 
unshaven, middle-aged man, trimming the fire at 
need, and sometimes washing his dishes in water 
that seemed to have cleansed the whole world 
beforehand — the draining of gutters, or caught at 
sink-spouts. In the cessations of labor, the Irish¬ 
men in the hold would poke their heads through 
the open space into the cabin and call “ Cook! ” — 
for a drink of water or a pipe—whereupon Cook 
would fill a short black pipe, put a coal into it, 
and stick it into the Irishman’s mouth. Here sat 
I on a bench before the fire, the other guests of 
the cabin being the stevedore, who takes the job 
of getting the coal ashore, and the owner of the 
horse that raised the tackle—the horse being 
driven by a boy. The cabin was lined with slabs 

— the rudest and dirtiest hole imaginable, yet 
the passengers had been accommodated here in 
the trip from New Brunswick. The bitter zero 
atmosphere came down the companion-way, and 
threw its chill over me sometimes, but I was 
pretty comfortable — though, on reaching home, 
I found that I had swaggered through several 
thronged streets with coal streaks on my visage. 

The wharfinger’s office is a general resort and 
refuge for people who have business to do on the 
wharf, in the spaces before work is commenced, 
between the hours of one and two, etc. A sala¬ 
mander stove — a table of the signals, wharves, 
and agent of packets plying to and from Boston 

— a snuff-box —a few chairs —etc., constituting 
the furniture. A newspaper. 

36 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

February n. Talk at the Custom House on 
Temperance. Gibson gives an account of his 
brother’s sore leg, which was amputated. Major 
Grafton talks of ancestors settling early in Salem 
— in 1632. Of a swallow’s nest, which he ob¬ 
served, year after year, on revisiting his boyhood’s 
residence in Salem, for thirty years. It was so 
situated under the eaves of the house, that he could 
put his hand in and feel the young ones. At last, 
he found the nest gone, and was grieved thereby. 
Query, whether the descendants of the original 
builders of the nest inhabited it during the whole 
thirty years. If so, the family might vie for dura¬ 
tion with the majority of human families. 

February 15. At the Custom House, Mr. Pike 
told a story of a human skeleton without a head 
being discovered in High Street, Salem, about 
eight years ago — I think in digging the founda¬ 
tions of a building. It was about four feet below 
the surface. He sought information about the 
mystery of an old traditionary woman of eighty, 
resident in the neighborhood. She, coming to the 
spot where the bones were, lifted up her hands 
and cried out, “ So ! they’ve found the rest of the 
poor Frenchman’s bones at last! ” Then, with 
great excitement, she told the bystanders how, 
some seventy-five years before, a young French¬ 
man had come from over-seas with a Captain Ta- 
nent, and had resided with him in Salem. He was 
said to be very wealthy, and was gayly appareled 
in the fashion of those times. After a while the 
Frenchman disappeared and Captain Tanent gave 
37 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

out that he had gone to some other place, and 
been killed there. After two or three years, it 
was found that the Captain had grown rich ; but 
he squandered his money in dissipated habits, 
died poor — and there are now none left of the 
race. Many years afterwards, digging near his 
habitation, the workmen found a human skull; and 
it was supposed to be that of the young French¬ 
man, who was all along supposed to have been 
murdered by the Captain. They did not seek for 
the rest of the skeleton; and no more was seen 
of it till Mr. Pike happened to be present at the 
discovery. The bone first found was that of the 
leg. He described it as lying along horizontally, 
so that the head was under the corner of the 
house; and now I recollect that they were dig¬ 
ging a post-hole when the last discovery was 
made, and at that of the head they were digging 
the foundation of the house. The bones did not 
adhere together, though the shape of a man was 
plainly discernible. There were no remnants of 
clothing. 

Mr. Pike told furthermore how a lady of truth 
and respectability — a church member — averred 
to him that she had seen a ghost. She was sit¬ 
ting with an old gentleman, who was engaged in 
reading the newspaper; and she saw the figure of 
a woman advance behind him and look over his 
shoulder. The narrator then called to the old 
gentleman to look around. He did so rather pet¬ 
tishly, and said, “ Well, what do you want me to 
look round for ? ” The figure either vanished or 
38 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

went out of the room, and he resumed the read¬ 
ing of his newspaper. Again the narrator saw 
the same figure of a woman come in and look over 
his shoulder, bending forward her head. This time 
she did not speak, but hemmed so as to attract 
the old gentleman’s attention; and again the 
apparition vanished. But a third time it entered 
the room, and glided behind the old gentleman’s 
chair, as before, appearing, I suppose, to glance 
at the newspaper; and this time, if I mistake not, 
she nodded or made some sort of sign to the wo¬ 
man. How the ghost vanished, I do not recol¬ 
lect ; but the old gentleman, when told of the 
matter, answered very scornfully. Nevertheless, 
it turned out that his wife had died precisely, 
allowing for the difference of time caused by dis¬ 
tance of place, at the time when this apparition 
had made its threefold visit. 

Mr. Pike is not an utter disbeliever in ghosts, 
and has had some singular experiences himself: 
— for instance, he saw, one night, a boy’s face, 
as plainly as ever he saw anything in his life, gaz¬ 
ing at him. Another time — or, as I think, two 
or three other times — he saw the figure of a man 
standing motionless for half an hour in Norman 
Street, where the headless ghost is said to walk. 

February 19. Mr. Pike is a shortish man, very 
stoutly built, with a short neck—an apoplectic 
frame. His forehead is marked, but not expan¬ 
sive, though large — I mean, it has not a broad, 
smooth quietude. His face dark and sallow — 
ugly, but with a pleasant, kindly, as well as strong 
39 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and thoughtful expression. Stiff, black hair, 
which starts bushy and almost erect from his 
forehead — a heavy, yet very intelligent counte¬ 
nance. He is subject to the asthma, and more¬ 
over to a sort of apoplectic fit, which compels 
[him] to sleep almost as erect as he sits ; and if 
he were to lie down horizontally in bed, he would 
feel almost sure of one of these fits. When they 
seize him, he awakes feeling as if [his] head were 
swelled to enormous size, and on the point of 
bursting — with great pain. He has his perfect 
consciousness, but is unable to call for assistance, 
or make any noise except by blowing forcibly 
with his mouth, and unless this brings help, he 
must die. When shaken violently, and lifted to 
a sitting posture, he recovers. After a fit, he 
feels a great horror of going to bed again. If 
one were to seize him at his boarding-house, his 
chance would be bad, because if any heard his 
snortings, they would not probably know what 
was the matter. These two afflictions might 
seem enough to make one man miserable, yet he 
appears in pretty fair spirits. 

He is a Methodist, has occasionally preached, 
and believes that he has an assurance of salva¬ 
tion immediate from the Deity. Last Sunday, 
he says, he gave religious instruction to a class in 
the State’s Prison. 

Speaking of his political hostilities, he said that 
he never could feel ill will against a person when 
he personally met him, that he was not capable of 
hatred, but of strong affection, —that he always 
40 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

remembered that “ every man once had a mother, 
and she loved him.” A strong, stubborn, kindly 
nature this. 

The City-Crier, talking in a familiar style to his 
auditors — delivering various messages to them, 
intermixed with his own remarks. He then runs 
over his memory to see whether he has omitted 
anything, and recollects a lost child — “ We Ve 
lost a child,” says he; as if, in his universal sym¬ 
pathy for all who have wants, and seek the grati¬ 
fication of them through his medium, he were 
one with the parents of the child. He then tells 
the people, whenever they find lost children, not 
to keep them overnight, but to bring them to his 
office. “ For it is a cruel thing ” —to keep them ; 
and at the conclusion of his lecture, he tells them 
that he has already worn out his lungs, talking to 
them of these things. He completely personifies 
the public, and considers it as an individual with 
whom he holds converse, — he being as impor¬ 
tant on his side, as they on theirs. 

An old man fishing on Long Wharf with a pole 
three or four feet long — just long enough to 
clear the edge of the wharf. Patched clothes, 
old, black coat — does not look as if he fished for 
what he might catch, but as a pastime, yet quite 
poor and needy looking. Fishing all the after¬ 
noon, and takes nothing but a plaice or two, 
which get quite sun-dried. Sometimes he hauls 
up his line, with as much briskness as he can, 
4i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and finds a sculpin on the hook. The boys come 
around him, and eye his motions, and make pity¬ 
ing or impertinent remarks at his ill-luck — the 
old man answers not, but fishes on imperturbably. 
Anon, he gathers up his clams or worms, and his 
one sun-baked flounder—you think he is going 
home — but no, he is merely going to another 
corner of the wharf, where he throws his line 
under a vessel’s counter, and fishes on with the 
same deathlike patience as before. He seems not 
quiet so much as torpid, — not kindly nor un¬ 
kindly feeling — but not to have anything to do 
with the rest of the world. He has no business, 
no amusement, but just to crawl to the end of 
Long Wharf, and throw his line over. He has 
no sort of skill in fishing, but a peculiar clumsi¬ 
ness. 

Objects on a wharf — a huge pile of cotton 
bales, from a New Orleans ship, twenty or thirty 
feet high, as high as a house. Barrels of molas¬ 
ses, in regular ranges ; casks of linseed oil. Iron 
in bars landing from a vessel, and the weigher’s 
scales standing conveniently. To stand on the 
elevated deck or rail of a ship, and look up the 
wbarf, you see the whole space of it thronged 
with trucks and carts, removing the cargoes of 
vessels, or taking commodities to and from stores. 
Long Wharf is devoted to ponderous, evil-smell¬ 
ing, inelegant necessaries of life — such as salt, 
salt-fish, oil, iron, molasses, etc. 

Near the head of Long Wharf there is an old 
sloop, which has been converted into a store for 
42 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

the sale of wooden ware, made at Hingham. It 
is afloat, and is sometimes moored close to the 
wharf ; — or, when another vessel wishes to take 
its place, midway in the dock. It has been there 
many years. The storekeeper lives and sleeps 
on board. 

Schooners more than any other vessels seem 
to have such names as Betsey, Emma-Jane, Sarah, 
Alice, — being the namesakes of the owner’s wife, 
daughter, or sweet-heart. They are a sort of 
domestic concern, in which all the family take an 
interest. Not a cold, stately, unpersonified thing, 
like a merchant’s tall ship, perhaps one of half a 
dozen, in which he takes pride, but which he does 
not love, nor has a family feeling for. Now Bet¬ 
sey, or Sarah-Ann, seems like one of the family 
— something like a cow. 

Long flat-boats, taking in salt to carry it up 
the Merrimack canal, to Concord, in New Hamp¬ 
shire. Contrast and similarities between a stout, 
likely country fellow, aboard one of these, to 
whom the scenes of a sea-port are entirely new, 
but who is brisk, ready, and shrewd in his own 
way, and the mate of a ship, who has sailed to 
every port. They talk together, and take to each 
other. 

The brig Tiberius, from an English port, with 
seventy or thereabouts factory girls, imported to 
work in our factories. Some pale and delicate- 
looking ; others rugged and coarse. The scene 
of landing them in boats, at the wharf-stairs, to 
the considerable display of their legs; — whence 
43 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

they are carried off to the Worcester railroad in 
hacks and omnibuses. Their farewells to the men 
— Good-by, John, etc., — with wavings of hand¬ 
kerchiefs as long as they were in sight. 

A pert, petulant young clerk, continually fool¬ 
ing with the mate, swearing at the stevedores and 
laboring men, who regard him not. Somewhat 
dissipated, probably. 

The mate of a coal-vessel — a leathern belt 
round his waist, sustaining a knife in a leathern 
sheath. Probably he uses it to eat his dinner 
with; perhaps also as a weapon. 

_ A young sailor, with an anchor handsomely 
traced on the back of his hand— a foul anchor—- 
and perhaps other naval insignia on his wrists 
and breast. He wears a sky-blue silk short 
jacket, with velvet collar — a bosom-pin, etc. 

An old seaman, seventy years of age — he has 
spent seven years in the British Navy (being of 
English birth) and nine in ours; has voyaged all 
over the world — for instance, I asked if he had 
ever been in the Red Sea, and he had, in the 
American sloop of war that carried General 
Eaton, in 1803. His hair is brown —without a 
single visible gray hair in it; and he would seem 
not much above fifty. He is of particularly quiet 
demeanor — but observant of all things, and 
reflective — a philosopher in a check shirt and 
sail-cloth trousers. Giving an impression of the 
strictest integrity — of inability not to do his 
duty, and his whole duty. Seemingly, he does 
not take a very strong interest in the world, be- 
44 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

ing a widower without children; but he feels 
kindly towards it, and judges mildly of it; and 
enjoys it very tolerably well, although he has so 
slight a hold on it that it would not trouble him 
much to give it up. He said he hoped he should 
die at sea, because then it would be so little 
trouble to bury him. He is a skeptic,—and 
when I asked him if he would not wish to live 
again, he spoke doubtfully and coldly. He said 
that he had been in England within two or three 
years — in his native county, Yorkshire — and 
finding his brother’s children in very poor condi¬ 
tion, he gave them sixty golden sovereigns. “ I 
have always had too many poor friends,” he said, 
“and that has kept me poor.” This old man 
kept tally of the Alfred Tyler’s cargo, on behalf 
of the Captain, diligently marking all day long, 
and calling “ tally, Sir,” to me at every sixth tub. 
Often would he have to attend to some call of 
the stevedores, or wheelers, or shovelers — now 
for a piece of spun-yarn — now for a handspike — 
now for a hammer, or some nails — now for some 
of the ship’s molasses, to sweeten water — the 
which the Captain afterwards reprehended him 
for giving. These calls would keep him in about 
movement enough to give variety to his tallying 
— he moving quietly about the decks, as if he 
belonged aboard ship and nowhere else. Then 
sitting down he would converse (though by no 
means forward to talk) about the weather, about 
his recent or former voyages, etc., etc., etc., we 
dodging the intense sun round the main mast. 

45 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Sophia writes to Hawthorne from Milton : — 

Sunday A. M., May 30, 1841. 

Dearest, — The chilling atmosphere keeps me 
from church to-day. . . . Since I saw you at the 
Farm, I wish far more than ever to have a home 
for you to come to, after associating with men at 
the Farm [Brook Farm] all day. A sacred retreat 
you should have, of all men. Most people would 
not desire or like it, but notwithstanding your 
exquisite courtesy and conformableness and geni¬ 
ality there, I could see very plainly that you were 
not leading your ideal life. Never upon the face 
of any mortal was there such a divine expression 
of sweetness and kindliness as I saw upon yours 
during the various transactions and witticisms of 
the excellent fraternity. Yet it was also the ex¬ 
pression of a witness and hearer, rather than of 
comradeship. Had I perceived a particle of even 
the highest kind of pride in your manner, it would 
have spoiled the perfect beauty and fitness. 

M. L. Sturgis, in a little note, gives a glimpse 
of Sophia’s world at that date : — 

“ I have seen your 4 Gentle Boy ’ to-night. I like 
it very much indeed. The boy I love already. Do 
you see Mr. Hawthorne often ? It was a shame 
he did not talk more that night at the Farm. 
Just recall that beautiful moon over the water, 
and those dear trees ! ” 

Ellen Hooper, when the engagement is known, 
shows how people felt about the new author: — 
46 


THE DAYS OF THE ENGAGEMENT 

" Your note seems to require a mood quite apart 
from the * every day ’ of one’s life, wherein to be 
read and answered. ... I do not know Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne — and yet I do; and I love him with that 
eminently Platonic love which one has for a friend 
in black and white [print]. He seems very near 
to me, for he is not only a dreamer, but wakes now 
and then with a pleasant ‘ Good-morrow ’ for 
shabby human interests. I am glad to hear that 
he is healthful\ for I profoundly admire this qual¬ 
ity ; and particularly in one who is not entitled to 
it on the ground of being stupid! ” 

Sophia’s aptness for writing poetry led her to 
inclose this poem to her future husband in one of 
her letters: — 

God granteth not to man a richer boon 
Than tow’rd himself to draw the waiting soul, 

Making it swift to pray this high control 
Would with according grace its jars attune. 

And man on man the largest gift bestows 
When from the vision-mount he sings aloud, 

And pours upon the unascended crowd 

Pure Order’s heavenly stream that o’er him flows. 

So thou, my friend, hast risen through thought supreme 
To central insight of eternal law. 

Thy golden-cadenced intuitions gleam 

From that new heaven which John of Patmos saw; 

And I my spirit lowly bend to thine, 

In recognition of thy words divine. 

From Salem she writes to Elizabeth, her sum¬ 
mer jaunt being over : — 

“ I have not touched a pencil since I came home. 
I cannot be grateful enough that I can be hands 
and feet to the dearest mother in the world, who 
47 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

has all my life been all things to me, so delicate 
as I have been. There is pastime, pleasure, and 
a touch of the infinitely beautiful to me in what 
is generally considered drudgery ; and I find there 
is nothing so inconsiderable in life that the mov¬ 
ing of the spirit of love over it does not commute 
it into essential beauty/' 

48 


CHAPTER III 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

Just before her marriage, on July 9, 1842, and 
her residence in the Old Manse, Sophia wrote to 
Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem : — 

July 5. 

My dear Mary, — You mistake much when 
you say you will not hear from me after I have 
gone to my own home. I shall tell those who 
are dear to me that I love them still. I feel to¬ 
day like a rising Phoenix. 

Mr. Hawthorne has been here, looking like the 
angel of the Apocalypse, so powerful and gentle. 
It seems as if I were realizing the dreams of the 
poets in my own person. Just think of the fe¬ 
licity of showing him my inscriptions with pencil 
and sculpturing-tool—and he so just and severe 
a critic! He is far the best critic I ever had. 
The agent of Heaven in this Concord plan was 
Elizabeth Hoar; a fit minister on such an errand, 
for minister means angel of God. Her interest 
has been very great in every detail. . . . 

Yours affectionately, 

Sophia. 

The following note is descriptive of the real 
49 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

happiness in the marriage, which was felt and 
often uttered by friends : — 

Dear Sophia, — I am not much used to ex¬ 
pressing to others what I feel about them, but I 
will give way to the feeling which prompts me to 
tell you how much I think about you now. An 
event like your marriage with Mr. Hawthorne is, 
like the presence of a few persons in this world, 
precious to me as an assurance of the good we all 
long for. I do not know your husband personally, 
but I care for him so much that I could well do 
the thought of him a passing reverence, like the 
young man who, I was told, uncovered his head as 
he passed Mr. Hawthorne’s house. Perhaps you 
are too much absorbed to recognize now, even in 
thought, the greeting of a friend ; perhaps we shall 
meet very little hereafter, as indeed we have hardly 
been intimate heretofore; but I shall remember 
you with interest. Affectionately yours, 

E. S. Hooper. 

Mrs. Hawthorne’s letters and journals while 
at the Old Manse now portray a beautiful exist¬ 
ence : — 

Concord, December 18, 1842. 

My dear Mary [Mrs. Caleb Foote, of Salem], 
— I hoped I should see you again, before I came 
home to our Paradise. I intended to give you a 
concise history of my elysian life. Soon after we 
returned, my dear lord began to write in earnest; 
and then commenced my leisure, because, till we 

50 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

meet at dinner, I do not see him. I have had to 
sew, as I did not touch a needle all summer, and 
far into the autumn, Mr. Hawthorne not letting 
me have a needle or a pen in my hand. We were 
interrupted by no one, except a short call now and 
then from Elizabeth Hoar, who can hardly be 
called an earthly inhabitant ; and Mr. Emerson, 
whose face pictured the promised land (which we 
were then enjoying), and intruded no more than 
a sunset, or a rich warble from a bird. 

One evening, two days after our arrival at the 
Old Manse, George Hillard and Henry Cleve¬ 
land appeared for fifteen minutes, on their way to 
Niagara Falls, and were thrown into raptures by 
the embowering flowers and the dear old house 
they adorned, and the pictures of Holy Mothers 
mild on the walls, and Mr. Hawthorne’s Study, 
and the noble avenue. We forgave them for 
their appearance here, because they were gone 
as soon as they had come, and we felt very hospi¬ 
table. We wandered down to our sweet, sleepy 
river, and it was so silent all around us and so 
solitary, that we seemed the only persons living. 
We sat beneath our stately trees, and felt as if 
we were the rightful inheritors of the old abbey, 
which had descended to us from a long line. The 
treetops waved a majestic welcome, and rustled 
their thousand leaves like brooks over our heads. 
But the bloom and fragrance of nature had become 
secondary to us, though we were lovers of it. In 
my husband’s face and eyes I saw a fairer world, 
of which the other was a faint copy. I fast ceased 
5i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


to represent Lilias Fay, under the influence of 
happiness, peace, and rest. We explored the 
woods. Sarah the maid was very tasty, and we 
had beautiful order; and when we ran races 
down the avenue, or I danced before my husband 
to the measures of the great music-box, she de¬ 
clared it did her heart good to see us as joyful as 
two children. 

December 30. Sweet, dear Mary, nearly a fort¬ 
night has passed since I wrote the above. I really 
believe I will finish my letter to-day, though I do 
not promise. That magician upstairs is very po¬ 
tent ! In the afternoon and evening I sit in the 
Study with him. It is the pleasantest niche in 
our temple. We watch the sun, together, descend¬ 
ing in purple and gold, in every variety of magnifi¬ 
cence, over the river. Lately, we go on the river, 
which is now frozen; my lord to skate, and I to 
run and slide, during the dolphin-death of day. I 
consider my husband a rare sight, gliding over 
the icy stream. For, wrapped in his cloak, he 
looks very graceful; perpetually darting from me 
in long, sweeping curves, and returning again — 
again to shoot away. Our meadow at the bottom 
of the orchard is like a small frozen sea, now; 
and that is the present scene of our heroic games. 
Sometimes, in the splendor of the dying light, we 
seem sporting upon transparent gold, so prismatic 
becomes the ice; and the snow takes opaline 
hues, from the gems that float aboye as clouds. 
It is eminently the hour to see objects, just after 
the sun has disappeared. Oh, such oxygen as we 
52 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 


inhale! Often other skaters appear,—young men 
and boys,—who principally interest me as foils 
to my husband, who, in the presence of nature, 
loses all shyness, and moves regally like a king. 
One afternoon, Mr. Emerson and Mr. Thoreau 
went with him down the river. Henry Thoreau 
is an experienced skater, and was figuring dithy- 
rambic dances and Bacchic leaps on the ice — 
very remarkable, but very ugly, methought. Next 
him followed Mr. Hawthorne who, wrapped in his 
cloak, moved like a self-impelled Greek statue, 
stately and grave. Mr. Emerson closed the line, 
evidently too weary to hold himself erect, pitch¬ 
ing headforemost, half lying on the air. He came 
in to rest himself, and said to me that Hawthorne 
was a tiger, a bear, a lion, — in short, a satyr, and 
there was no tiring him out; and he might be the 
death of a man like himself. And then, turning 
upon me that kindling smile for which he is so 
memorable, he added, “Mr. Hawthorne is such 
an Ajax, who can cope with him ! ” 

After the first snowstorm, before it was so 
deep, we walked in the woods, very beautiful in 
winter, and found slides in Sleepy Hollow, where 
we became children, and enjoyed ourselves as of 
old, — only more, a great deal. Sometimes it is 
before breakfast that Mr. Hawthorne goes to 
skate upon the meadow. Yesterday, before he 
went out, he said it was very cloudy and gloomy, 
and he thought it would storm. In half an hour, 
oh, wonder ! what a scene ! Instead of black sky, 
the rising sun, not yet above the hill, had changed 
53 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the firmament into a vast rose! On every side, 
east, west, north, and south, — every point blushed 
roses. I ran to the Study, and the meadow sea 
also was a rose, the reflection of that above. And 
there was my husband, careering about, glorified 
by the light. Such is Paradise. 

In the evening we are gathered together be¬ 
neath our luminous star, in the Study, for we have 
a large hanging astral lamp, which beautifully 
illumines the room, with its walls of pale yellow 
paper, its Holy Mother over the fireplace, and 
pleasant books, and its pretty bronze vase, on one 
of the secretaries, filled with ferns. Except once 
Mr. Emerson, no one hunts us out in the evening. 
Then Mr. Hawthorne reads to me. At present 
we can only get along with the old English writers, 
and we find that they are the hive from which all 
modern honey is stolen. They are thick-set with 
thought, instead of one thought serving for a 
whole book. Shakespeare is preeminent; Spen¬ 
ser is music. We dare to dislike Milton when 
he goes to heaven. We do not recognize God 
in his picture of Him. There is something so 
penetrating and clear in Mr. Hawthorne’s intel¬ 
lect, that now I am acquainted with it, merely 
thinking of him as I read winnows the chaff from 
the wheat at once. And when he reads to me, 
it is the acutest criticism. Such a voice, too, — 
such sweet thunder! Whatever is not worth 
much shows sadly, coming through such a me¬ 
dium, fit only for noblest ideas. From reading 
his books you can have some idea of what it is to 
54 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

dwell with Mr. Hawthorne. But only a shadow 
of him is found in his books. The half is not told 
there. Your true friend, 

Sophia A. Hawthorne. 

P. S. Mr. Hawthorne sends his love to your 
husband. 

Concord, April 6, 1843. 

My dearest Mary, — I received your letter 
of April 2 late last evening. It is one, I am 
sure, which might call a response out of a heart 
of adamant; and mine, being of a tenderer sub¬ 
stance, it answers with all its chords. Dear, sweet, 
tender, loving Mary, you are more like Herder’s 
Swan than anything else I can think of. The 
spirits of your translated babes bring you airs 
from heaven. What a lovely trinity of souls; 
what a fair star they form, according to Sweden¬ 
borg’s beautiful idea. I doubt not there is a path 
of descent, like that of Jacob’s ladder, from their 
Father’s bosom to your heart, and they ascend and 
descend, like those angels of his dream. 

Dear Mary, just imagine my husband in reality, 
as faintly shadowed in his productions. Fresh 
as a young fountain, with childlike, transparent 
emotions; vivid as the flash of a sword in the 
sun with sharp wit and penetration; of such 
an unworn, unworldly observance of all that is 
enacted and thought under the sun ; as free from 
prejudice and party or sectarian bias as the birds, 
and therefore wise with a large wisdom that is 
as impartial as God’s winds and sunbeams. His 
frolic is like the sport of Milton’s “ unarmed 
55 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

youth of heaven.” But I will not pretend to 
describe his intellect; and I have by no means 
yet searched it out. I repose in it as upon some 
elemental force, which always seems just created, 
though we cannot tell when it began to be. Of 
his beautiful, genial, tender, and great nature I can 
still less adequately discourse. His magnanimity, 
strength, and sweetness alternately, and together, 
charm me. He fascinates, wins, and commands. 

We have passed the winter delightfully, read¬ 
ing to each other, and lately studying German. 
I knew a little, just enough to empower me to 
hold the rod, and be somewhat impertinent, and I 
have entire preeminence in the way of pronun¬ 
ciation. But ever and anon I am made quite 
humble by being helped out of thick forests by 
my knight, instead of guiding him. So we teach 
each other in the most charming manner, and I 
call it the royal road to knowledge, finally discov¬ 
ered by us. Mr. Hawthorne writes all the morn¬ 
ing. Do you see “The Democratic Review ” ? In 
the March number is “The Procession of Life.” 
Mr. Jonathan Phillips told Elizabeth he thought 
it a great production, and immediately undertook 
to read all else my husband had written. “ The 
Celestial Railroad,” for the April number, is 
unique, and of deep significance. It is a rare 
privilege to hear him read his manuscript aloud 
with the true expression. 

Elizabeth Hoar has taken tea with us only once 
this winter, and I have seen her very rarely. The 
walking is so bad in the country in winter that 
56 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 


only tall boots can cope with it. Unawares one 
foot sinks down to the Celestial Empire, and the 
other anchors in the moon. I have had to confine 
myself principally to the avenue, through which 
our Flibbertigibbet [or Imp] made a clear path for 
me. Mr. Thoreau has been pretty often, and is 
very interesting. Mr. Emerson, from January, 
was at the South ; so Sirius was not visible to the 
eye for nearly three months. 

Among other things, I have been very much 
interested in teaching my Irish angel to read and 
write. She is as bright as Burke, and repays me 
an hundredfold by her progress. She is so sweet 
and generous and gentle, that it is pleasant to 
happen upon her pretty face about the house. 

Mr. Hawthorne says I must tell you that he 
shall be most happy to meet you in heaven ; but 
he wishes you would as a preliminary come and 
spend a week with us this summer. He says 
this is the best way to get acquainted with him. 

To Mrs. Peabody, now living in Boston, Sophia 
writes: — 

May. 

Darling Mother, — I find my heart cannot 
rest unless I send you an enormous bunch of 
columbines; and so I have concluded to take my 
cake-box and fill it with flowers. My husband 
and I have gathered all these columbines since 
dinner, on the bank of the river, two fields off 
from the battle-ground. Now I think of it, it is 
Lizzie's favorite wildflower. I cannot bear to 
57 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

think of you as two prisoners in the book-room, 
at this time. I do not know, however, as Eliza¬ 
beth would be happy to remain in the country, 
because men and women are her flowers, and 
they do not grow on hills and slopes. But you 
were born to live in a garden, where flowers at 
your tendance might gladlier grow (according to 
Milton). We had a letter from Louisa Haw¬ 
thorne to-day, which says that the cat Beelzebub 
is dead. We are going to put our Pigwiggin in 
mourning for her cousin. [Hawthorne was, as all 
his family were, remarkably fond of cats. He 
had given Beelzebub his name.] 

Another letter now goes to Mrs. Foote : — 

August ii. 

Beloved Mary, — I received your long ex¬ 
pected letter during a visit from the Hillards. I 
feared you were ill, but not that you had for¬ 
gotten me; for I have an imperturbable faith in 
the love of my friends which appearances cannot 
affect. 

No influenzas or epidemics of any kind reach 
our old abbey, though in the village of Concord 
they often prevail. I think the angel who de¬ 
scended with healing in his wings, and stirred 
the pool of Bethesda, must purify the air around 
us. We have had a charming summer. At the 
first flinging open of our doors my father made 
us a visit of a week, and, according to his love of 
order, put everything out of doors in place ; moved 
patriarchal boards covered with venerable moss, 
58 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

and vividly exercised all his mechanical powers. 
Among other things he prepared the clay with 
which I mould men and heroes, so that I began 
Mr. Hawthorne’s bust. Next came Miss Anna 
Shaw [Mrs. S. G. Ward], in full glory of her golden 
curls, flowing free over her neck and brows, so 
that she looked like the goddess Diana, or Au¬ 
rora. Everything happened just right. The day 
she arrived, Mr. Emerson came to dine, and shone 
back to the shining Anna. He was truly “ tangled 
in the meshes of her golden hair,” for he reported 
in several places how beautiful it was, afterwards. 
It was very warm, and after Mr. Emerson left us, 
we went out upon the lawn under the shady trees, 
and Anna extended herself on the grass, leaning 
her arms upon a low cricket, and “Sydnian 
showers of sweet discourse” distilled upon us. 
Towards sunset we went to the terrace on the 
bank of the river, and then there was a walk to 
Sleepy Hollow. Afterwards, we again resorted 
to the lawn, and the stars all came out over our 
heads with great brilliancy; and Anna, again 
upon the grass, pointed out the most beautiful 
constellations. Now we expect Louisa Haw¬ 
thorne every day. Excepting for the three weeks 
and a little more occupied by our friends, we 
have been quite alone. The 9th of July, our 
wedding-day, was most heavenly, and at night 
there was a most lustrous moon. That night Mr. 
Allston died. Nature certainly arrayed herself 
in her most lovely guise, to bid him farewell. 

Mr. Hawthorne has written a little, and culti- 
59 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

vated his garden a great deal; and as you may 
suppose, such vegetables never before were 
tasted. It is a sober fact, dear Mary, that I never 
ate any so good. When Apollos tend herds and 
till the earth, it is but reasonable to expect un¬ 
usual effects. I planted flowers, which grow 
pretty well. We have voyaged on the river con¬ 
stantly, harvesting water-lilies; and lately cardi¬ 
nal-flowers, which enrich the borders with their 
superb scarlet mantles in great conclaves. 

I have just finished Ranke’s “ History of the 
Popes.” I stumbled quite accidentally upon eccle¬ 
siastical history, lately. I asked my husband to 
bring me any book that he chanced to touch upon 
from his Study, one day, and it proved to be 
“ Luther, and the Reformation.” So I have gone 
on and backwards, upon the same subject. I 
read several volumes of the Theological Library, 
fretting all the time over the narrow spirit in 
which great men were written about. Finally 
I took Ranke. He is splendid and whole-sided, 
and has given me an idea of the state of Europe 
from the first times. 

Elizabeth Hoar came while Susan Hillard was 
here, looking as usual like the Rose of Sharon, 
though thinner than ever. Ellery Channing and 
E. live in a little red cottage on the road, with 
one acre attached, upon which Ellery has worked 
very hard. E. keeps a small school for little 
children. They are very happy, and Ellery is a 
very charming companion. He talks very agree¬ 
ably. 


60 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 


October 15. 

Beloved Marie, — I received your requiem 
for Mrs. Peabody [not a near connection of Mrs. 
Hawthorne’s, but of Mr. George Peabody’s, the 
philanthropist] yesterday, and cannot delay re- 
. sponding to it. We talk a great deal about the 
reality of Heaven and the shadowiness of earth, 
but no one acts as if it were the truth. It seems 
as if the benign and tender Father of men, in 
whose presence we rejoice and confide, became 
suddenly changed into a dark power, and cur¬ 
tained Himself with gloom, the instant death 
laid its hand upon our present bodies, and freed 
the soul for another condition. And this, too, 
although Jesus Christ at the hour when His 
spirit resigned the clay rent the veil from top to 
bottom, and revealed to all eyes the golden cheru¬ 
bim and the Holy of Holies. God alone knows 
whether I could act my belief in the greatest 
of all possible earthly separations. But before I 
loved as I now do heaven was dim to me in 
comparison. I cannot conceive of a separation 
for one moment from my transfigured soul in 
him who is transfused with my being. I am in 
heaven now. Oh, let me not doubt it, if for a 
little while a shadow should wrap his material 
form from my sight. 

I am in rejoicing and most vigorous health. 
After breakfast I paint for two or three hours. I 
am now copying Mr. Emerson’s divine Endy- 
mion. After dinner we walk till about five. 

61 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

The following letter refers to Sophia’s sister 
Mary, who had become Mrs. Horace Mann : — 

Dearest Mary, — I do not know whether you 
were ever aware of the peculiar love I have felt 
from childhood for my precious sister, who is 
now so blest. It has always been enthusiastic 
and profound. Her still and perfect disinter¬ 
estedness, her noiseless self-devotion, her trans¬ 
parent truthfulness and all-comprehensive benevo¬ 
lence through life! No words can ever express 
what a spear in my side it has been to see her 
year after year toiling for all but herself, and 
growing thin and pale with too much effort. Not 
that ever her heroic heart uttered a word of com¬ 
plaint or depreciation. But so much the more 
did I feel for her. I saw her lose her enchant¬ 
ing gayety, and become grave and sad, yet could 
do nothing to restore her spirits. I was hardly 
aware, until it was removed, how weighty had 
been the burden of her unfulfilled life upon my 
heart. At her engagement, all my wings were 
unfolded, and my body was light as air. 

Mrs. Mann had been to Europe for her wed¬ 
ding-tour, and was thus welcomed home : — 

November 7. 

Beloved Mary, — Yesterday noon my dear 
husband came home from the village but a few 
seconds — it seemed even to me — after he left 
me, shining with glad tidings. They were, that 
62 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

the steamer had arrived with you in it! Imagine 
my joy, for I cannot tell it. You will come and 
see me, I am sure. I am especially commissioned 
by Mr. Emerson to request my dear and honor¬ 
able brother, Mr. Mann, to come to Concord to 
lecture at the Lyceum as soon as he possibly can. 
He says that Mr. Hoar told him he had never 
heard such eloquence from human lips as from 
Mr. Mann’s. “ Therefore,” says he, “ this is the 
place of all others for him to come and lecture.” 
Tell me beforehand whether your husband eats 
anything in particular , that I may have it all 
ready for him. I am in the greatest hurry that 
mortal has been in since Absalom ran from his 
pursuers. Your own 

SOFHIECHEN. 

The record for Sophia’s mother goes on unfail¬ 
ingly : — 

November 19. 

My dearest Mother, —This Indian summer 
is very beautiful. The dulcet air and stillness are 
lovely. This morning we watched the opal dawn, 
and the stars becoming pale before it, as also 
the old moon, which rose between five and six 
o’clock, and, in the form of a boat of pure silvery- 
gold, floated up the sea of clear, rosy air. I am so 
very early a riser that the first faint light usually 
finds me busy. 

I wish you could see how charmingly my hus¬ 
band’s Study looks now. As we abandon our 
drawing-room this winter, I have hung on his 

63 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

walls the two Lake Como and the Loch Lomond 
pictures, all of which I painted expressly for him ; 
and the little mahogany centre-table stands under 
the astral lamp, covered with a crimson cloth. The 
antique centre-table broke down one day beneath 
my dear husband’s arms, with a mighty sound, 
astonishing me in my studio below the Study. He 
has mended it. On one of the secretaries stands 
the lovely Ceres, and opposite it Margaret Fuller’s 
bronze vase. In the afternoon, when the sun fills 
the room and lights up the pictures, it is beauti¬ 
ful. Yet still more, perhaps, in the evening, when 
the astral enacts the sun, and pours shine upon all 
the objects, and shows, beneath, the noblest head 
in Christendom, in the ancient chair with its sculp¬ 
tured back [a chair said to have come over in the 
Mayflower, and owned by the Hawthorne family]; 
and whenever I look up, two stars beneath a brow 
of serene white radiate love and sympathy upon 
me. Can you think of a happier life, with its rich 
intellectual feasts ? That downy bloom of happi¬ 
ness, which unfaithful and ignoble poets have per¬ 
sisted in declaring always vanished at the touch 
and wear of life, is delicate and fresh as ever, and 
must remain so if we remain unprofane. The 
sacredness, the loftiness, the ethereal delicacy of 
such a soul as my husband’s will keep heaven 
about us. My thought does not yet compass him. 

December. For the world’s eye I care nothing ; 
but in the profound shelter of this home I would 
put on daily a velvet robe, and pearls in my hair, 
to gratify my husband’s taste. This is a true 
64 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

wife’s world. Directly after dinner my lord went 
to the Athenaeum ; and when he returned, he sat 
reading Horace Walpole till he went out to the 
wood-house to saw and split wood. Presently I 
saw, hastening up the avenue, Mr. George Brad¬ 
ford. He stayed to tea. His beautiful character 
makes him perennial in interest. As my husband 
says, we can see nature through him straight, 
without refraction. My water this morning was 
deadly cold instead of livingly cold, and I knew 
the Imp must have taken it from some already 
drawn, instead of right from the well. The maid 
brought for me from Mrs. Emerson’s “ The Mys¬ 
teries of Paris,” which I read all the evening. I 
have been to see E. Channing, who looked very 
pretty. She has a dog named Romeo, which 
Mrs. S. G. Ward gave them. I borrowed a book 
of E. about sainted women. In “ The Democratic 
Review” was my husband’s “Fire Worship.” I 
could not wait to read it! It is perfectly inimi¬ 
table, as usual. His wit is as subtle as fire. This 
morning I got up by moonlight again, and sewed 
till Mary brought my fresh-drawn water. The 
moon did not set till after dawn. To-day I pro¬ 
menaded in the gallery with wadded dress and 
muff and tippet on. After tea, my lord read Jones 
Very’s criticism upon “ Hamlet.” This morning 
was very superb, and the sunlight played upon 
the white earth like the glow of rubies upon 
pearls. My husband was entirely satisfied with 
the beauty of it. He is so seldom fully satisfied 
with weather, things, or people, that I am always 

6s 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

glad to find him pleased. Nothing short of per¬ 
fection can content him. How can seraphs be 
contented with less ? After breakfast, as I could 
not walk out on account of the snow, I concluded 
to housewife. My husband shoveled paths (heaps 
of snow being trifles to his might), and sawed 
and split wood, and brought me water from the 
well. To such uses do seraphs come when they 
get astray on earth. I painted till after one 
o’clock. There was a purple and gold sunset. 
After dinner to-day Mr. Hawthorne went to the 
village, and brought back “The Salem Gazette.” 
Some one had the impudence to speak of him in 
it as “gentle Nat Hawthorne.” I cannot con¬ 
ceive who could be so bold and so familiar. Gentle 
he surely is, but such an epithet does not com¬ 
prehend him, and gives a false idea. As usual 
after sunset, he went out to find exercise till 
quite dark. Then he read aloud part of “The 
Tempest,” while I sewed. In the evening he 
told me about his early life in Raymond [Maine], 
and he gave me some of Mr. Bridge’s famous 
wine. To-day my husband partly read “Two 
Gentlemen of Verona.” I do not like it much. 
What a queer mood Shakespeare must have been 
in, to write it. He seems to be making fun. I 
wrote to Mrs. Follen, and made up a budget of a 
paper from my husband for her “ Child’s Friend.” 
It was the incident of Mr. Raike’s life, with 
regard to his founding of Sunday-schools, most 
exquisitely told, and set in a frame of precious 
jewels. Whatever my husband touches turns to 
66 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

gold in the intellectual and spiritual world. I 
sewed on a purple blouse for him till dusk. We 
have the luxury of our maid’s absence, and Apollo 
helped me by making the fires. I warmed rice 
for myself, and had the happiness of toasting his 
bread. He read aloud “ Love’s Labour’s Lost,” 
and said that play had no foundation in nature. 
To-day there have been bright gleams, but no 
steady sunshine. Apollo boiled some potatoes 
for breakfast. Imagine him with that magnifi¬ 
cent head bent over a cooking-stove, and those 
star-eyes watching the pot boil! In consequence, 
there never were such good potatoes before. For 
dinner we did not succeed in warming the pota¬ 
toes effectually; but they were edible, and we 
had meat, cheese, and apples. This is Christmas 
Day, which I consider the most illustrious and 
sacred day of the year. Before sunrise, a great, 
dark blue cloud in the east made me suppose it 
was to be a dismal day; but I was quite mis¬ 
taken, for it has been uncommonly beautiful. 
Peace has seemed brooding “with turtle wing” 
over the world, and no one stirs, as if all men 
obeyed the command of the elements, which was, 
“ Be still, as we are.” I intended to make a fine 
bowl of chocolate for my husband’s dinner, but 
he proposed to celebrate Christmas by having no 
cooking at all. At one o’clock we went together 
to the village, my husband going to the Athe¬ 
naeum, and I to Mrs. Emerson’s, where Mr. Tho- 
reau was dining. On the way home I saw in the 
distance the form of forms approaching. We 
67 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

dined on preserved fruits and bread and milk, — 
quite elegant and very nice. What a miracle my 
husband is! He has the faculty of accommodating 
himself to all sorts of circumstances with marvel¬ 
ous grace of soul. In the afternoon he brought 
me some letters, one being from E. Hooper, with 
verses which she had written after reading “ Fire 
Worship.” The motto is “ Fight for your stoves ! ” 
and the measure that of “ Scots wha hae.” It is 
very good. The maid returned. This morning 
we awoke to a mighty snowstorm. The trees 
stood white-armed all around us. In the after¬ 
noon some one knocked at the front door. I was 
amazed, supposing no one could overcome the 
roads, and thought it must be a government 
officer. As the door opened, I heard a voice say, 
“ Where is the man ? ” It was Ellery Channing, 
who exclaimed, as he appeared at the Study, 
where we were, that it was the very time to come, 
— he liked the snow. He looked like a shaggy 
bear; but his face was quite shining, as usual. 
He brought some novels and reviews, which 
Queen Margaret [Fuller] had sent to Ellen Chan¬ 
ning [her sister] to read. We had to leave him, 
while we dined, at three. He would not join us, 
and made his exit while we were in the dining¬ 
room. To-day as I painted the wind arose, and 
howled and swept about, and clouded the sun, 
and wearied my spirits. I was obliged to put 
away my palette at half past twelve o’clock, and 
then came up, and looked into the Study at my 
husband. He was writing, and I was conscience- 
68 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

stricken for having interrupted him. We went 
to walk, and a neighbor invited us to drive to 
town in his sleigh. I accepted, but my husband 
did not. The Imp sprang on, as we passed his 
house; and then I found that the kind old man 
was Mr. Jarvis of the hill. I went to the post- 
office, where my husband was reading a letter 
from Mr. Hillard. We stayed at the Athenaeum 
till after two, and then braved the warring winds 
homewards. We had no reading in the evening, 
for the wind was too noisy. 

January i, 1844. A quiet morning at last; 
the wind had howled itself dead, as if it were the 
breath of the Old Year, by midnight. On our 
way home to-day from the Athenaeum, Dr. Bart¬ 
lett met us, and offered to take me along. On 
the way he spoke of George Bradford’s worship¬ 
ing Mr. Hawthorne. I had a fine time painting, 
this morning. Everything went right, and I suc¬ 
ceeded quite to my mind. I felt sure my husband 
above me must also be having a propitious morn¬ 
ing. When he came to dinner, he said he did 
not know as he ever felt so much like writing on 
any one day. Mr. Emerson called. 


January 9. 

Beloved Mother, — I dated all the docu¬ 
ments I sent by Plato [Mr. Emerson] a day too 
late. My husband will dispatch a budget to Mr. 
Hillard’s care, containing a paper which he is to 
send to Mr. Griswold, editor of “ Graham’s Mag¬ 
azine.” He wrote to my husband, when he took 
69 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the editorship, and requested him to contribute, 
telling him he intended to make the magazine of 
a higher character, and therefore ventured to ask, 
offering five dollars per page, and the liberty of 
drawing for the money the moment the article 
was published. “ The Democratic Review ” is so 
poor now that it can only offer twenty dollars for 
an article of what length soever, so that Mr. 
Hawthorne cannot well afford to give any but 
short stories to it; and it is besides sadly dilatory 
about payment. The last paper he sent to it was 
a real gift, as it was more than four pages ; but 
he thought its character better suited to the grave 
“ Democrat ” than for the other publication. Why 
did not you send the last number ? He is quite 
impatient for it. I also long to read again that 
terrific and true picture of a cold heart. [The 
Bosom Serpent.] I do not know what the present 
production is about, even ; for I have made it a law 
to myself never to ask him a word concerning 
what he is writing, because I always disliked to 
speak of what I was painting. He often tells 
me; but sometimes the story remains hidden till 
he reads it aloud to me, before sending it away. 
I can comprehend the delicacy and tricksiness of 
his mood when he is evolving a work of art. He 
waits upon the light in such a purely simple way 
that I do not wonder at the perfection of each of 
his stories. Of several sketches, first one and 
then another come up to be clothed upon with 
language, after their own will and pleasure. It is 
real inspiration, and few are reverent and patient 
70 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

enough to wait for it as he does. I think it is in 
this way that he comes to be so void of extrava¬ 
gance in his style and material. He does not 
meddle with the clear, true picture that is painted 
on his mind. He lifts the curtain, and we see a 
microcosm of nature, so cunningly portrayed that 
truth itself seems to have been the agent of its 
appearance. Thus his taste is genuine — the 
most faultless I ever knew. Now, behold! all 
unforeseen, a criticism upon the genius of Na¬ 
thaniel Hawthorne! 

Dear mother, Louisa Hawthorne has sent me 
some exquisite silk flannel for little shirts, but 
not quite enough. It is a dollar a yard. Mrs. 
Emerson says that you will find it at Jacobs', on 
Tremont Street. I could not refuse my child 
the luxury of feeling such a material over its dear 
little bosom. I have to spend a great deal of 
time in darning the small craters in my stockings. 

yanuary 21. In the hope of some unoccupied 
carrier-pigeon’s straying this way, I shall write to¬ 
day. The extreme cold freezes the ground, and 
my lord will not consent to my putting foot out 
of doors, so I remain a singing-bird in my happy 
cage, endeavoring by walks in the long upper 
entry (which is enlivened by sundry winds rush¬ 
ing through a broken window-pane) to make some 
amends for being deprived of the outward world. 
Yesterday I felt as if I had dieted upon diamonds 
and were sparkling with rainbow colors like an 
icicle in the sun. I painted upon Endymion. 
My husband blasphemes the fierce winds and 
7i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

extreme cold in a very picturesque manner; but 
the disapprobation he feels is a moral one, not a 
physical discomfort. He cleaves the air like a 
Damascus blade, so finely attempered that he is 
unharmed. I never knew any person in such 
fine health as he is; because he is not obtusely 
well — he has no brute force; but every part of 
his frame seems in perfect diapason, like a bird’s. 
I should be afraid of him if he were in ferocious 
health; but his health is heavenly. Endymion 
will certainly be finished this week if I remain 
alive, and the sun shines. [It is a picture in pale 
brown monochromes, of the most remarkable per¬ 
fection of finish and beauty of draughtsmanship.] 
I shall ask Plato to carry it to Boston in his arms, 
unless my honorable brother Horace [Mann] will 
take it when he comes to lecture. It will be per¬ 
fectly light, but cannot be given up to the stage- 
man. I do not want it shown to any person until 
it be framed, with a glass over it. Daggett must 
be made to hasten his work ; but he is as obsti¬ 
nate and cross as a mule ; yet no one can make 
such superlative frames. The price must be an 
hundred dollars independently of the frame; if 
it be worth one cent, it is worth that. I dearly 
desire that some one I know should possess it. 
I shall be glad some day to redeem it, for it has 
come out of my soul. What a record it is of 
these happy, hopeful days! The divine dream 
shining in Endymion’s face, his body entranced 
in sleep, his soul bathed in light, every curve 
flowing in consummate beauty — in some way it 
72 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 


is my life. But, for Endymion, I must look upon 
a small bit of gold. [Her husband would not let 
her sell the picture, after all.] 

March 16. 

My dearest Mother, — The sumptuous box¬ 
ful arrived, and the dressed beef is most accept¬ 
able, and the wafers are very nice, Mr. Hawthorne 
liking them exceedingly. Una went to see her 
father yesterday morning, the nurse declaring 
that she looked as nice as silver and pretty as a 
white rose. Great was his surprise to see his 
little daughter coming to him! My husband 
wishes father would please go to the agents for 
“The Democratic Review,” and tell them he is on 
the free list. The three last numbers have not 
been sent to him, they having stopped sending at 
the printing of “ The Christmas Banquet.” Will 
father also look into “ Graham’s Magazine ” for 
March, and see whether it contains “ Earth's 
Holocaust,” and if so, send it to us ? 

August. 

Directly after you left us, baby went to sleep, 
and slept three hours, during which time I accom¬ 
plished wonders. We dined upon potatoes, corn, 
carrots, and whortleberry pudding, quite sumptu¬ 
ously. Our cook was Hyperion, whom we have, 
engaged. He, with his eyes of light, his arched 
brow, and “locks of lovely splendor,” officiated 
even to dish-washing, with the air of one making 
worlds. I, with babe on arm, looked at him part 
of the time. No accident happened, except that 
a sprigged saucer “came into halves;” and I 
73 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


found that Hyperion, in his new office, had put 
the ivory handles of the knives into the water, 
knowing no better, and left the silver to be 
washed last instead of first. I dragged Una in 
her carriage in the avenue, and she was very 
happy. She woke a little after four this morning, 
and when I first opened my eyes upon her, her 
feet were “in the sky.” I laid the breakfast- 
table, and prepared everything for Hyperion to 
cook milk and boil water. At breakfast, baby sat 
radiant in her coach. George Prescott brought a 
hot Indian cake from his mother, while we were 
at table. Before Hyperion had quite finished his 
kitchen-work, Colonel Hall and his little son came 
to see him. The Colonel only stayed about an hour, 
and could not come to dinner. The unhappy lamb 
was boiled, together with some shelled beans and 
corn. 

August 20. Your packet arrived last evening. 
I am much inclined to have the black woman. 
My husband says he does not want me to un¬ 
dertake to keep anybody who is apparently inno¬ 
cent, after my late sore experience. He says 
the old black lady is probably as bad already as 
she ever will be. If you find the blackey not 
disinclined to come to such poor folks, I will take 
her in September. I cannot well ask dear Mary 
to visit me while my Hyperion is cook and maid. 
He will not let me go into his kitchen, hardly; 
but it is no poetry to cook, and wash dishes; and 
I cannot let him do it for anybody but myself 
alone. The only way we can make money now 
74 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

seems to be to save it; and as he declares he can 
manage till September, we will remain alone till 
then. It is beyond words enchanting to be so. 
But, I assure you, his office is no sinecure. He 
actually does everything. And I sit upstairs, and 
out of doors with baby, more of a queen than ever, 
for I have a king to my servitor. It would cost 
too much to board ; you know we cannot live 
cheaper anywhere or anyhow than thus. 

Again, a letter is sent to Mrs. Caleb Foote : — 

The Promised Land. 

My dear Mary, —You are the most satisfac¬ 
tory person to draw for of any one I know. [So¬ 
phia had sent one of her pictures as a present.] 
Your letter gave me the purest pleasure, for it 
made me feel as if I had caused two hearts to be 
glad, and that is worth living for, if it be done but 
once in a life. . . . We have passed the happiest 
winter, the long evenings lifted out of the com¬ 
mon sphere by the magic of Shakespeare. Mr. 
Hawthorne read aloud to me all the Plays. And 
you must know how he reads, before you can have 
any idea what it was. I can truly say I never 
comprehended Shakespeare before ; and my hus¬ 
band was pleased to declare that he never himself 
understood him so well, though he has pored over 
the Plays all his life. All the magnificence, the 
pomp, the cunning beauty, the wisdom and fine 
wit, and the grace were revealed to me as by a 
new light. Every character is unfixed from the 
page, and stands free in life. Meanwhile I 
75 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

sewed, and whenever a little garment was finished, 
I held it up, and won a radiant smile for it and 
the never-weary question (with the charming, 
arch glance) “ Pray, who is that for ? ” 

We breakfast about nine o’clock, because we do 
not dine till three ; and we have no tea ceremony, 
because it broke our evenings too much. I break 
my fast upon fruit, and we lunch upon fruit, and 
in the evening, also, partake of that paradisaical 
food. Mr. Emerson, with his sunrise smile, Ellery 
Channing, radiating dark light, and, very rarely, 
Elizabeth Hoar, with spirit voice and tread, have 
alone varied our days from without; but we have 
felt no want. My sweet, intelligent maid sings at 
her work, with melodious note. I do not know 
what is in store for me ; but I know well that 
God is in the future, and I do not fear, or lose 
the precious present by anticipating possible evil. 
I remember Father Taylor’s inspired words, 
“ Heaven is not afar. We are like phials of water 
in the midst of the ocean. Eternity, heaven, 
God, are all around us, and we are full of God. 
Let the thin crystal break, and it is all one.” 
Mr. Mann came to Concord to lecture last week. 
He looked happiest. What can he ask for more, 
having Mary for his own ? Hold me ever as 
Your true and affectionate friend, 

Sophia. 

The Hawthornes left the Old Manse for visits 
to their relatives. Hawthorne went to Salem in 
advance of his wife, who writes to him : — 

76 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

Boston, August 15. 

. . . Yesterday your letter raised me to the 
eighth heaven — one heaven beyond the imagina¬ 
tion of the great poet. ... I am very sorry you 
did not come, for Mr. Atherton was to be at 
home at eight o’clock that evening, hoping to 
see you, and Mr. Pierce was also in the city, 
desiring to meet you. Una knew Mr. Atherton 
directly, when I took her to call, and at once 
challenged him to run after her. Soon after¬ 
wards a fine wooden singing-bird arrived, with a 
card on which was written “for Una Hawthorne.” 
Mrs. Williams called. She asked me to give you 
a great deal of love. She wished we would visit 
her in Augusta, Maine. I have taken Una upon 
the Common several times, and she runs after all 
babies and dogs. She is so beautiful that I am 
astonished at her. Frank Shaw says she is per¬ 
fect, and like Raphael’s ideal babies. This morn¬ 
ing a letter came to you from the Count [Mr. 
John O’Sullivan was usually called by this title 
by the Hawthornes], who has some good propo¬ 
sals. The offer from the “ Blatant Beast ” [name 
given by Hawthorne to a certain publisher] of 
the— But I will send the letter; it will not cost 
any more than mine alone, thanks to the new law. 

Having gone to stay for a few days in Herbert 
Street, Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her mother : — 

Salem, November 19. 

. . . Father took most beautiful care of us, and 
did not leave us till we were seated in the cars. 

77 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Mr. Dike followed. I told him that if he wished 
to see Una, he could do it by sitting behind. This 
he did, and kept up a constant talking with her, 
all the way. She looked lofty and grave, and un¬ 
fathomable in her eyes; but finally had compas¬ 
sion on him, and faintly smiled in that way which 
always makes her father say, “ Mightily gracious, 
madam ! ” An old man by the side of Mr. Dike 
asked him whether Una were his grandchild ! She 
liked the old man, and smiled at him whenever 
he spoke to her. Upon arriving in Salem, Mr. 
Dike went to find my husband ; whom, however, 
I saw afar off in the crowd of ugly men, showing 
like a jewel (pearl) in an Ethiop’s ear, so fine and 
pale, with the large lids cast down, and a radiant 
smile on his lips. 

For the first time since my husband can re¬ 
member, he dined with his mother! This is only 
one of the miracles which the baby is to perform. 
Her grandmother held her on her lap till one 
of us should finish dining, and then ate her own 
meal. She thinks Una is a beauty, and, I be¬ 
lieve, is not at all disappointed in her. Her grand¬ 
mother also says she has the most perfect form 
she ever saw in a baby. She waked this morning 
like another dawn, and smiled bountifully, and 
was borne off to the penetralia of the house to 
see Madam Hawthorne and aunt Elizabeth. My 
husband’s muse is urging him now, and he is 
writing again. He never looked so excellently 
beautiful. Una is to be dressed as sumptuously 
as possible to-day, to visit her grandaunt Ruth 
78 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 


[Manning]. Louisa wants her to overcome with 
all kinds of beauty, outward and inward. I feel 
just made. All are quite well here, and enjoy 
the baby vastly. 

To Hawthorne in Salem : — 


Boston, December 19. 

... If I asked myself strictly whether I could 
write to you this evening, I should say absolutely 
no, for ten thousand different things demand the 
precious moments while our baby sleeps. ... I 
bless God for such a destiny as mine ; you satisfy 
me beyond all things. ... Una is now down¬ 
stairs with her aunt Elizabeth, and she shines 
with perfection of’ well-being. When she is near 
a chair, with both hands resting upon it, she will 
suddenly let go, and for a few glorious seconds 
maintain her equilibrium, and then down she sits 
upon the floor. C. Sturgis and Anna Shaw have 
been to see her. I took her to William Story’s 
yesterday, and he thought her eyes very beauti¬ 
ful, and said he had scarcely ever seen perfectly 
gray eyes before ; and that such were the finest 
eyes in the world, capable of the most expression. 
He added, that her eyes were like those of an 
exquisite child of Raphael’s, which he had seen, 
in oils. 

Mr. Colton has been again to see you. Per¬ 
haps it is quite fortunate that you were guarded 
from an interview, since you would have refused 
his offers. When will you come back ? Mr. Hil- 
79 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

lard said you promised to go there again. You 
can always come here. 

Your loving wife, Phcebe. 

After returning home, Sophia writes : — 

Concord, January 26, 1845. 

Best Mother (I like that Swedish epithet), — 
The jewel is precisely what I wanted. It appears 
strange for us to make presents of precious stones 
set in gold ; but the occasion is sufficient to jus¬ 
tify it. Mrs. Prescott is perpetually doing for 
me what she will not allow me to pay for, and 
often what I cannot pay for. She remains rich 
in consciousness, but the burden of obligation is 
too great. She papered my kitchen with her own 
hands, and would not let me even pay for the 
paper; she also employed her man to put up a 
partition ; and she is stiff-necked as an Israelite 
on these points. She sends us Indian cakes 
and milk bread, or any nicety she happens to 
have. George has the pleasantest way of going 
of errands about which I cannot employ the 
Imp, Ben, and he took excellent care of Leo, 
the dog, during our absence, feeding him so sump¬ 
tuously that he looked very superb when we re¬ 
turned, only requiring to have an heroic soul to 
be the Doge of dogs. I never imagined any¬ 
thing so enchanting as Una’s rapid development. 
Every morning, as soon as she is awake, she ex¬ 
tends her little hand to the Madonna. Then she 
points to Loch Lomond (which I have moved to 
my room), and then to Abbotsford, each time 
80 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

observing something about the pictures, as she 
gazes into my face. My replies I always feel to 
be very stupid; but I do as well as I can, con¬ 
sidering that I am not now a baby. Another of 
her acts is to put up her forefinger to my mouth, 
to be kissed ; and often she puts up her own 
mouth for a kiss, and then smiles with an expres¬ 
sion of covert fun — sub ridens y her father calls it. 
The other evening, while the trees were still crys¬ 
tal chandeliers, it grew dusk before the lamps 
were lighted; and all at once, behold the full 
moon rose up from behind the hill “ over against 
our house,” exactly between the trees at the en¬ 
trance of our avenue. Picture to yourself the 
magnificence. The sharp gleam of the crys¬ 
tals made it seem as if the stars had fallen, and 
were caught by the branches, and a thousand 
shining scimitars flashed into view. Una hap¬ 
pened to be turned towards the scene. How I 
wish you could have seen the wonder and gleam 
of her face! As the moon rose higher and 
higher, she continued to talk about it, her hand 
extended. We lighted no lamp that evening. 
The next morning I asked her where the moon 
was, and she turned towards the window with a 
questioning tone. Last evening my better than 
Epaminondas was stretched upon the floor, for 
her entertainment. It was the prettiest sight that 
ever was. Una is as strong as a little lion, and I 
could dance at any moment. The half-hour glass 
that you gave me is a great enchantment to my 
81 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


husband, and has already suggested some divine 
production. 

To Mrs. Foote, once more: — 


Paradise Regained, May 4, 1845. 

My dear Mary, — My husband and I will be 
most happy to receive you, I would say at once, 
but I must wait till these avenue trees are in leaf, 
because I want you to see our quiet Eden in its 
full summer dress. It has begun to array itself; 
and the Balm of Gilead, a significant tree for us, 
is already in tender green, and the showerful 
poplar, so mightily abused, is, this lovely morning, 
becoming golden with new yellow foliage. But 
as this is our last year in the blessed old abbey, 
you must see it in perfection. The lawn beneath 
the trees is already a rich emerald, and large gold 
stars begin to spangle it. You shall see my little 
darling running over the green grass, with a con¬ 
tinued song of exultation. She thinks this is the 
first Paradise, and that her father is the primal 
Adam, and that she possesses the earth, now 
that she is out of leading-strings. 


December 7, 1845. 

I was very glad of an answer to my volume of 
a letter, and that it gave you satisfaction. Words 
are a poor portrait of Una, this ray of light. The 
distinctness and intelligence of her language are 
a kind of miracle. Her father said one day that 
she was the book of Revelation. Once, I said 
82 


THE EARLY DAYS OF THE MARRIAGE 

for her Mother Goose’s “ Cushy cow bonny, let 
down your milk! ” and after hearing the whole 
verse several times she began to repeat it to 
herself, but said, “ Tushy tow bonny, let down 
Nona s milk!” And she always corrects me if I 
omit her name. She often says, “ Bobby Shafto ’s 
done to sea; tome back, marry Nona ! ” with a 
very facetious expression. Her father tells her 
that he shall not allow Bobby to marry her. 

83 


CHAPTER IV 


LIFE IN SALEM 

The Hawthornes now moved to Salem, where 
they remained for several years. 

Washington’s Birthday, 1846. 

True Mother, — Through the howling storm 
your little box of benefits came safely. I was 
especially grateful to hear from you, because I 
had read in the paper of Mr. Mann’s walking into 
the dock, and feared he might be very ill after it. 
I was exceedingly relieved to hear that he was 
none the vrorse for such an unexpected baptism. 
I thought that after getting tired and heated by 
lecturing, the transition might be almost mortal 
for his delicate frame. I, in my old-fashioned 
simplicity of faith, would have it that God saved 
him. My husband has found “ The Christmas 
Banquet,” and he has made up the second vol¬ 
ume, which I send with this, for dear father to 
transmit to New York. The second volume must 
be printed first, because he has not long enough 
dreamed over the new tale or essay which is to 
commence the first volume. From all question 
as to what this precious web may be, last woven 
in the loom of his genius, I sacredly abstain till 


LIFE IN SALEM 


the fullness of time. Oh, I am so glad that these 
scattered jewels are now to be set together ! 

“Zuna” is spreading out her painted tea-set 
upon a little oval tray that came from beyond 
sea, in her father’s childhood. She plays tea¬ 
drinking with infinite grace and skill. Last week 
Louisa Hawthorne and I spent the day with Mrs. 
Dike, and Una behaved like a consummate lady, 
although she frolicked like a child. Mrs. Dike 
gave her some beautiful silver playthings, with 
which she had a tea-party. Rebecca Manning 
[a little cousin] was there, and over their airy tea 
Una undertook to be agreeable, and began of her 
own accord to converse, and tell Rebecca about 
her life in Concord. She said, “In Tontord 
Zuna went out into the orchard and picked apples 
in her little basket, for papa and mamma to eat.” 
And then, with a countenance and tone of tri¬ 
umph, she exclaimed, “ And papa’s boat! ” 

A long letter written by George William Curtis 
is a bright ray from a beautiful personality, con¬ 
taining these descriptions : — 

Rome, January 14, 1847. 

My dear Friends, — How often in the long 
sunny silence of that summer voyage, when in 
the Atlantic all day the sea rippled as gently 
about the ship as the waters of Walden pour 
against their shore, and in the Mediterranean the 
moon would have no other mirror, but entranced 
its waves to an oily calmness in which she shone 

85 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

unbroken, did I figure you gliding with us on 
our fairy way to France, Italy, and in the next 
summer, Switzerland ! One day in our voyage 
we passed the Straits of Gibraltar — seeing land 
for the first time in twenty-eight days. We came 
so near and passed so rapidly, saw so distinctly 
the dusky gray olive foliage of Spain and the 
little round towers whence the old Spaniards 
looked for the Moors ; and on the other side, so 
grim and lonely, the intricate mountain outline 
of Africa, so distinctly, and at night again, and 
for many days after, the same broad water; that 
it lies more dreamily in my memory than any¬ 
thing else. . . . On the forty-fifth day I stepped 
ashore in France ; but not without more regret 
than I thought possible, for the ship; and one of 
the crew, of my own age, with whom I had seen 
the stars fade in the morning during his watch, 
had become very dear to me. Yet in Marseilles 
everything was quaint. . . . The same features 
I had always known in a city, — men, houses, 
streets, squares ; but with an expression unknown 
before. At night, with my sailor friend, I threaded 
some of the narrower streets, which were like 
corridors in an unshapely Titan palace. At the 
doors of the smallest shops on each side sat the 
spinsters in the moonlight, gossiping and knit¬ 
ting ; while over them bent old French trades¬ 
men, in long yarn stockings and velvet knee- 
breeches. The street was barely wide enough 
for a carriage, and they talked across; and all was 
as gay and happy as Arcadia. Every day [in Flor. 

86 


LIFE IN SALEM 


ence], I was in the galleries, which are freely 
open to every one, and here saw the grandest 
works of Raphael in his middle and best style. 
Of the wonderful feminine grace and tenderness 
of these, of which no copy can give an idea, I 
cannot properly speak. From him only have I re¬ 
ceived the idea of the Immaculate Mother — the 
union of celestial superiority with human mater¬ 
nity. The innumerable other Madonnas are beau¬ 
tiful pictures ; but they are either mere mothers 
or mere angels. It is the same union in kind with 
what you may observe in his portrait, where mas¬ 
culine character is so blended and tempered with 
feminine grace and flexibility. Raphael is the 
clear, deep, beautiful eye, in which and through 
which is seen the undoubted heaven. . . . 

How glad I am that I have a right to send you 
a letter! I have left a small space into which 
to squeeze a large love, which I send to Mrs. 
H., with my thanks for her kind letter, which 
could not come too late, and which I am very 
sure highly gratified Mr. Crawford. He desires 
to make his especial regards to Mrs. H., and said 
that he should write her a note, if it were not too 
great a liberty, which he would send in a letter 
to Mrs. Howe. Mention my name to Una; for 
in some dim remembrance of Concord meadows 
I may then figure as a shadowy faun. A long, 
pleasant letter from George Bradford, the other 
day, gave me the last news from our old home, 
which is very placid and beautiful in my memory. 
I should love to see Ellery Channing’s new book. 

87 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

But I am sure that he will never forgive himself 
for coming to Rome for sixteen days. I am sorry 
to say good-by. G. W. Curtis. 

While on a visit to her mother, Mrs. Hawthorne 
writes to her husband : — 

Boston, July. 

... I received your most precious letter yester¬ 
day. I do not need to stand apart from daily life 
to see how fair and blest our lot is. Every mother 
is not like me — because not every mother has 
such a father for her children ; so that my cares 
are forever light. Am I not eminently well, round, 
and rubicund ? Even in the very centre of simul¬ 
taneous screams from both darling little throats, 
I am quite as sensible of my happiness as when 
the most dulcet sounds are issuing thence. I 
have suffered only for you, in my babydom. You 
ought not to be obliged to undergo the wear and 
tear of the nursery ; it is contrary to your na¬ 
ture and your mood. You were born to muse, 
and through undisturbed dreams to enlighten the 
world. Una mourns for you. “ Oh, I must go 
home to see my papa ! Oh, when are we going to 
Salem ?” Her little heart has enough of mine in 
it to feel widowed without you. Julian does not 
walk yet; but he understands everything, and 
talks a great deal. 

There was a sharp contrast between Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne’s earlier life of intercourse with trooping, 
charming friends, and devotion to art and litera- 
88 


LIFE IN SALEM 


ture, and the toils of motherhood in poverty which 
now absorbed her days. She refers to this new 
order of existence with joyful patience in the fol¬ 
lowing letters to Mrs. Peabody : — 

Salem, September, 1848. 

Dora Golden [Julian’s nurse] takes this to you. 
She deferred her visit to Boston for my conve¬ 
nience, because Mr. Hawthorne thought of going 
to Temple, to visit General Miller; but he did 
not go. Mr. Hawthorne will contribute to Eliz¬ 
abeth’s book, but not for pay. Mary Chase took 
Una and me to Nahant to see Rebecca Kinsman 
at her cottage. It was a dear little nest, on the 
brow of a hill commanding the boundless sea. 
Una flew around like a petrel; only that her hair 
floated golden in the sunshine, and the petrel’s 
feathers are gray. You are quite right; I am so 
happy that I require nothing more. No art nor 
beauty can excel my daily life, with such a hus¬ 
band and such children, the exponents of all art 
and beauty. I really have not even the tempta¬ 
tion to go out of my house to find anything better. 
Not that I enjoy less any specimen of earthly or 
heavenly grace when I meet it elsewhere; but 
I have so much in perpetual presence that I am 
not hungry for such things. 


November 19, 1848. 

I intended almost every day last week to go 
to Boston, but was detained by various circum¬ 
stances. Among other things, Mr. Daniel Web- 
89 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

ster was to come to lecture, and I thought I 
must wait to hear him. I am glad I did, for it 
was a very useful lecture, and in some parts 
quite grand. It was upon the Constitution — a 
noble subject. You know he is particularly de¬ 
signated as the Expounder of the Constitution. 
He stood like an Egyptian column, solid and 
without any Corinthian grace, but with dignity 
and composed majesty. He gave a simple state¬ 
ment of facts concerning the formation of our 
united government ; and towards the close, he 
now and then thundered, and his great cavernous 
eyes lightened, as he eloquently showed how no¬ 
ble and wonderful it was, and how astonishing the 
sagacity and insight of those young patriots had 
been in the memorable Congress. The old Lion 
walked the stage with a sort of repressed rage, 
when he referred to those persons who cried out, 
“ Down with the Constitution ! ” “ Madmen ! 

Or most wicked if not mad ! ” said he, with a glare 
of fire, as he looked about him. He had risen 
with his hat in his hand, and held it all the time, 
making no gestures excepting once, when he 
referred to the American eagle and flag. He 
then raised his hand and pointed as if the eagle 
were cleaving the air; and he said, “ Who calls 
this the Massachusetts eagle, the Illinois eagle, 
— or this the Virginia flag, or the New Hamp¬ 
shire flag? Are they not the American eagle 
and the American flag ? And wherever the flag 
waves, let him touch it who dares ! ” His voice 
and glance as he pronounced these words were 
90 


LIFE IN SALEM 


the artillery of a storm ; and they were followed 
by tremendous rolls of applause. Mr. Hawthorne, 
who is one of the managers of the Lyceum (!) 
was deputed to go on Monday to West Newton, 
to see Mr. Mann about lecturing here. 

Sophia writes to Mrs. Mann, then in Washing¬ 
ton : — 

“ Is Congress behaving any worse than usual ? 
The members are always giving the lie and seiz¬ 
ing each other by the collar, ever since the grave 
and majestic days of the first Sessions, it seems 
to me. But we have not got to being quite such 
monkeys as the French are in their Assemblies. 
Mrs. George Peabody, a week or two ago, gave 
a great ball, to which she invited us. I heard 
that Mr. Peabody had put his magnificent Murillo 
picture in the finest light imaginable, having built 
a temporary oratory for it, on the piazza upon 
which the library opens. The library was dark 
as night, and as I entered it, the only object I 
could see was this divine Madonna at the end of 
the illuminated oratory. It is the Annunciation. 
There is not the smallest glory of color in the 
picture. The power, the wonder of the picture, is 
the beauty of the expression and features. Her 
eyes are lifted and her hands crossed upon her 
bosom. The features seem hardly material, such 
a fineness and spiritual light transfigure them. 
It is the greatest picture I ever saw.” 

A fragment of a letter suggests a lecture and 
a great innovation. 


9i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

“ My husband bought a ticket for himself, and 
went with me! ! Mr. Alcott spent an evening 
with us a week or more ago, and was very inter¬ 
esting ; telling, at my request, about his youth, 
and peddling, etc. There were six ladies and six 
gentlemen present last Monday evening. They 
assembled at Mr. Stone’s. Miss Hannah Hodges, 
Mrs. J. C. Lee, and two ladies whom I did not 
know, besides Mrs. Stone and myself ; Mr. Froth- 
ingham, Mr. William Silsbee, Mr. Shackford, of 
Lynn, Mr. Pike, Mr. Streeter, and my husband, 
besides Mr. Stone and his son. Mr. Alcott said 
he would commence with the Nativity, and first 
read Milton’s Hymn. Then he retreated to his 
corner, and for about an hour and three quarters 
kept up an even flow of thought, without a word 
being uttered by any other person present. Then 
Mr. Stone questioned him upon his use of the 
word ‘ artistic; ’ which provoked a fine analysis 
from him of the word ‘ artist ’ as distinguished 
from ‘artisan.’ I thought the whole monologue 
very beautiful and clear. This evening Mr. Tho- 
reau is going to lecture, and will stay with us. 
His lecture before was so enchanting; such a 
revelation of nature in all its exquisite details of 
wood - thrushes, squirrels, sunshine, mists and 
shadows, fresh, vernal odors, pine-tree ocean mel¬ 
odies, that my ear rang with music, and I seemed 
to have been wandering through copse and din¬ 
gle ! Mr. Thoreau has risen above all his arro¬ 
gance of manner, and is as gentle, simple, ruddy, 
and meek as all geniuses should be; and now his 
92 


LIFE IN SALEM 


great blue eyes fairly outshine and put into shade 
a nose which I once thought must make him un¬ 
comely forever.” 

Several letters from Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne 
break in upon the usual quietude with allusions 
to the real hardship of public misapprehension; 
yet no false statements and judgments were ever 
more coolly received. Still, Mrs. Hawthorne 
writes with an excited hand : — 

June 8, 1849. 

My dear Father, —Mr. Hawthorne received 
news by telegraph to-day that he is turned out of 
office headlong. I have written to mother, and 
told her, fearing she would hear of it accidentally. 
We are not cast down at all, and do not be anx¬ 
ious for us. You will see by my letter to mother 
how we are hopeful and cheerful about it, and 
expect better things. The cock is crowing the 
noon of night and I must to bed. I have written 
a long letter to mother. We are all well. 

Your affectionate daughter, 

Sophia. 

The letter to her mother has not been com¬ 
pletely preserved, but runs : — 

. . . The telegraph to-day brought us news that 
would have made the cottage [at Lenox] particu¬ 
larly acceptable, because we could have lived 
there upon our own responsibility—for the Old 
General has turned Mr. Hawthorne out of the Sur~ 
veyorship. Do not be troubled; for we are not. 

93 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Mr. Hawthorne never liked the office at all, and 
is rather relieved than otherwise that it is taken 
out of his hands, and has an inward confidence 
that something much better and more suitable 
for him will turn up. As for me, you know I am 
composed of Hope and Faith, and while I have 
my husband and the children I feel as if Monte¬ 
zuma’s diamonds and emeralds were spiritually in 
my possession. But we look forward with a kind 
of rapture to the possibility of now going into the 
country somewhere this summer, and setting Una 
’ down in a field\ where she so pines to go. Mean¬ 
time, the newly appointed Surveyor’s commission 
has not arrived, and so Mr. Hawthorne is not yet 
out of office. 

I have not seen my husband happier than since 
this turning out. He has felt in chains for a 
long time, and being a man, he is not alarmed 
at being set upon his own feet again, — or on his 
head y I might say, — for that contains the avail¬ 
able gold, of a mine scarcely yet worked at all. 
As Margaret [Fuller] truly said once, “We have 
had but a drop or so from that ocean.” We are 
both perfectly well, too, and brave with happiness, 
and “ a credence in our hearts, and esperance so 
absolutely strong, as doth outvie the attest of 
eyes and ears.” (So Shakespeare somewhere 
speaks for us, somewhat so — but not verbatim, 
for I forget one or two words.) 

Above all, it has come in the way of an inevi¬ 
table Providence to us (whatever knaveiy some 
people may have to answer for, who have been 
94 


LIFE IN SALEM 


the agents in the removal), and I never receive 
inevitable Providences with resignation merely; 
but with joy , as certainly, undoubtedly, the best 
possible events that can happen for me — and 
immediately I begin to weave the apparent straw 
into gold, like the maiden in the fairy tale. 

Good-by now, dear mother. Do not be anx¬ 
ious. I should not have told you this now — 
fearing you might be troubled — but I was afraid 
you might see the removal in the papers, or hear 
of it; and I thought it best to let you know just 
how it is with us, so that you might not have a 
shock. Your most affectionate child, 

Sophia. 


June io. 

My dear Father, — Here is a pretty busi¬ 
ness, discovered in an unexpected manner to Mr. 
Hawthorne by a friendly and honorable Whig. 
Perhaps you know that the President said before 
he took the chair that he should make no re¬ 
movals, except for dishonesty and unfaithfulness. 
So that all who voted for him after that declara¬ 
tion pledged themselves to the same course. You 
know also doubtless that there has never been 
such a succession of removals of honorable and 
honest men since we were a nation as since the 
accession of President Taylor,—not even under 
Jackson, — who, however, always removed people 
because they were Whigs, without any covert 
implication of character. This has been Demo¬ 
cratic conduct — to remove for political reasons. 

95 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

This conduct the Whigs always disapproved, and 
always said that no one ought to be removed but 
from disability or dishonesty. So that now when 
any one is removed, it is implied that the person 
is either a shiftless or a dishonest man. It is 
very plain that neither of these charges could 
be brought against Mr. Hawthorne. Therefore 
a most base and incredible falsehood has been 
told — written down and signed and sent to the 
Cabinet in secret. This infamous paper certifies 
among other things (of which we have not heard) 
— that Mr. Hawthorne has been in the habit of 
writing political articles in magazines and news¬ 
papers ! 

This he has never done, as every one knows, 
in his life — not one word of politics was ever 
written by him. His townsfolk, of course, know 
it well. But what will surprise you more than this 
fact is to hear who got up this paper, and per¬ 
jured his soul upon it; who followed his name 
with their signatures, and how it was indorsed. 
It was no less a person than Mr. C. W. U.!!! 
who has thus proved himself a liar and a most 
consummate hypocrite; for he has always pro¬ 
fessed himself the warmest friend. He certifies 
the facts of the paper ; and thirty other gentle¬ 
men of Salem sign their names ! Among whom 
are G. D. and young N. S., and Mr. R. R.! Can 
you believe it ? Not one of these gentlemen 
knew this to be true, because it is not true ; and 
yet, for party ends, they have all perjured them¬ 
selves to get away this office, and make the Presi- 
96 


LIFE IN SALEM 


dent believe there were plausible pretexts; they 
had no idea it could be found out. But the Dis¬ 
trict Attorney saw the paper. He is a Whig, but 
friendly to Mr. Hawthorne, on literary grounds; 
and the District Attorney told a Salem gentleman, 
also a Whig and a personal friend of Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne’s. Thus, the “murder” is out, through 
better members of the same party. 

Mr. Hawthorne took the removal with perfect 
composure and content, having long expected it 
on account of his being a Democrat. But yes¬ 
terday, when he went to Boston and found out 
this, the lion was roused in him. He says it is a 
cowardly attack upon his character, done in such 
secrecy; and that he shall use his pen now in a 
way he never has done, and expose the lie, ad¬ 
dressing the public. Your child, 

Sophia. 

June 17. 

My blessed Mother, — Your most welcome 
and beautiful letter of the nth I very gladly re¬ 
ceived. You take our reverse of fortune in the 
way I hoped you would. I feel “beyond the 
utmost scope and vision of calamity ” (as Pericles 
said to Aspasia), while my husband satisfies my 
highest ideal, and while the graces of heaven fill 
the hearts of my children. Everything else is 
very external. This is the immortal life which 
makes flowers of asphodel bloom in my path, and 
no rude step can crush them. I exult in my hus¬ 
band. He stands upon a table-land of high be- 
97 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

havior which is far above these mean and false 
proceedings, with which a party of intriguers are 
now concerning themselves, and covering them¬ 
selves with the hopeless mud of Dante’s Inferno. 
The more harm they try to do, deeper down they 
plunge into the mire ; and I doubt if ever in this 
world some of them will be able to wash their 
faces clean again. My husband supposed he was 
removed because he was a Democrat (and you 
know very well how he has always been a Demo¬ 
crat, not a Locofoco — if that means a lucifer 
match). Therefore he took it as a matter of 
course in the way of politics; though it surprised 
me, because General Taylor had pledged himself 
not to remove any person for political opinions, 
but only for dishonesty and inefficiency. This 
was why all Mr. Hawthorne’s Whig as well as 
Democrat friends were sure he would not be dis¬ 
turbed. He could not even have provoked hostil¬ 
ity by having taken any active part in politics, — 
never writing, never speaking, never moving for 
the cause. But these intriguers secretly carried 
out their plan. They wrote in letters false charges 
which they sent to Washington, and thirty gentle¬ 
men signed their names to a paper requesting the 
appointment of Mr. Putnam. 


June 21, Thursday. 

My own dear Mother, — I am truly disap¬ 
pointed that you have not had this letter before, 
but the tide of events has hurried me away from 
it. Now I must write a few words. You never 
98 


LIFE IN SALEM 


heard of such a time about any one as there has 
been about Mr. Hawthorne. The whole coun¬ 
try is up in arms, and will not allow Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne to be removed. And now I have the good 
news to tell you that his removal is suspended at 
Washington, and he is either to be reinstated if 
he will consent, or to be presented with a better 
office. At Washington the Government was de¬ 
ceived, and were not told that the person to 
be removed was Mr. Hawthorne — so secret and 
cunning were these four gentlemen of Salem! 
I cannot tell you all the abominable story now; 
and it is no matter, since they are caught in their 
own toils, and defeated. Mr. Hawthorne’s name 
is ringing through the land. All the latent feel¬ 
ing about him now comes out, and he finds him¬ 
self very famous. Mr. Samuel Hooper has been 
very active for him. Mr. Howes has done no¬ 
thing else for ten days but go back and forth to 
Boston, and come here to see my husband, upon 
the subject. It has wholly roused him out of 
his deep affliction for the death of Frederic [his 
brother], for whom he feels as if he were acting 
now, so deep was Frederic’s love and admiration 
for Mr. Hawthorne. I wrote the above on my lap, 
following Julian about, this hottest day. Now 
I can only say good-by, and implore you to stay 
through July among the mountains. It is too 
hot in West Street for you. We are all well, 
here, and there. When I see you, I will tell you 
this long story about the removal, which has 
proved no removal, as Mr. Hawthorne has not 
99 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

left the Custom House, and the commission of 
the new officer has not arrived. 

Your loving child, 

Sophia. 

P. S. Just to show to what a detail of mean¬ 
ness and cunning the reverend person descends, 
I must tell you that he brought from Washington 
a paper which he copied from the original me¬ 
morial there ; which memorial was a testimony 
of the merchants of Salem in favor of Colonel 
Miller’s being Collector. This memorial Mr. 
Hawthorne, in official capacity as Surveyor of 
the Port, and acquainted therefore with the mer¬ 
chants, indorsed,—saying that, “to the best of 
his recollection,” these were all the principal 
merchants, and that they were responsible per¬ 
sons. In the copy which Mr. U. made he left 
out “to the best of his recollection,” and made it 
read that these were all the merchants of Salem. 
Stephen C. Phillips’s name was not signed. And 
so Mr. U. brings this to prove that Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne is impeachable for want of veracity ! He 
tried hard to find that my husband acted politi¬ 
cally with regard to Colonel Miller’s appointment; 
and as this was impossible, he thought he would 
try to prove him a false witness. Did you ever 
know of such pitiful evasions ? But there is no 
language to describe him. He is, my husband 
says, the most satisfactory villain that ever was, 
for at every point he is consummate. The Gov¬ 
ernment had decided to reinstate Mr. Hawthorne 
before Mr. U.’s arrival at Washington, and his 

ioo 


LIFE IN SALEM 


representations changed the purpose. I trust 
Mr. Everett will be enlightened about the latter, 
so as to see what an unjust act he has committed 
by retracting his first letter. “ What! ” said 
Charles Sumner of Mr. U., “that smooth, smil¬ 
ing, oily man of God! ” 

Hawthorne has occasion to write to the 

HON. HORACE MANN, M. C., WEST NEWTON, MASS. 

Salem, June 26, 1849. 

My dear Sir, — I have just received your note, 
in which you kindly offer me your interest to¬ 
wards reinstating me in the office of Surveyor. 

I was perfectly in earnest in what I told Eliza¬ 
beth, and should still be very unwilling to have 
you enter into treaty with Mr. K., Mr. U., or other 
members of the local party, in my behalf. But, 
on returning here, after an absence of two or 
three days, I found a state of things rather dif¬ 
ferent from what I expected, the general feeling 
being strongly in my favor, and a disposition to 
make a compromise, advantageous to me, on the 
part of some, at least, of those who had acted 
against me. “ The Essex Register,” of yesterday, 
speaks of an intention to offer me some better 
office than that of which I have been deprived. 
Now, I do not think that I can, preserving my 
self-respect, accept of any compromise. No other 
office can be offered me that will not have been 
made vacant by the removal of a Democrat; and, 
even if there were such an office, still, as charges 
101 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

have been made against me, complete justice can 
be done only by placing me exactly where I was 
before. This also would be the easiest thing for 
the Administration to do, as they still hold my 
successor’s commission suspended. A compro¬ 
mise might indeed be made, not with me, but with 
Captain Putnam, by giving him a place in this 
Custom House—which would be of greater emol¬ 
ument than my office ; and I have reason to be¬ 
lieve that the Collector would accede to such an 
arrangement. Perhaps this idea might do some¬ 
thing towards inducing Mr. Meredith to make the 
reinstatement. 

I did not intend to involve you in this business ; 
nor, indeed, have I desired any friend to take up 
my cause ; but if, in view of the whole matter, 
you should see fit to do as Mr. Mills advises, I 
shall feel truly obliged. Of course, after consent¬ 
ing that you should use your influence in my 
behalf, I should feel myself bound to accept the 
reinstatement, if offered. I beg you to believe, 
also, that I would not allow you to say a word for 
me, if I did not know that I have within my 
power a complete refutation of any charges of 
official misconduct that have been, or may be, 
brought against me. 

Sophia and the children are well. The man¬ 
agers of the Lyceum desire to know if you will 
deliver two lectures for them, before the session 
of Congress. 

Very truly yours, 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 


102 


LIFE IN SALEM 


Salem, July 2, 1849. 

My dear Sir, — I am inclined to think, from 
various suspicious indications that I have noticed 
or heard of, between the Whigs and one or two 
of my subordinate officers, that they are concoct¬ 
ing, or have already concocted, a new set of 
charges against me. Would it not be a judicious 
measure for you to write to the Department, re¬ 
questing a copy of these charges, that I may have 
an opportunity of answering them ? There can 
be nothing (setting aside the most direct false 
testimony, if even that) which I shall not have it 
in my power either to explain, defend, or disprove. 
I had some idea of calling for these charges 
through the newspapers, but it would bring on 
a controversy which might be interminable, and 
would only, however clearly I should prove my 
innocence, make my reinstatement the more diffi¬ 
cult ; so that I judge it best to meet the charges 
in this way — always provided that there are 
any. 

It grieves me to give you so much trouble ; but 
you must recollect that it was your own voluntary 
kindness, and not my importunity, that involves 
you in it. Very truly yours, 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

The following letter is fragmentary, because of 
the demands of some autograph-hunter. 

... It occurred to me, after sending off those 
documents, yesterday, that I ought to have given 
103 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

you some particulars as to the political character 
and standing of the gentlemen who signed them. 
B. Barstow, Esq., is Vice-President of the Hick¬ 
ory Club, and a member of the Democratic Town 
Committee. William B. Pike is Chairman of the 
Democratic County Committee. T. Burchmore, 
Jr., Esq., is Chairman of the Democratic Congres¬ 
sional District Committee. Dr. B. F. Browne 
signs in his own official character as a member of 
the Democratic State Committee. They have all 
been active in our local politics, and thoroughly 
acquainted with the political . . . [mutilated for 
autograph signature]. 

As respects the letter from T. Burchmore, Jr., 
to myself, I wish to say a few words. Mr. Burch¬ 
more has, for twenty-five years past, occupied a 
situation in the Custom House ; and for a long 
time past, though nominally only head clerk, has 
been the actual head of the establishment, ow¬ 
ing to his great business talent and thorough ac¬ 
quaintance with all matters connected with the 
revenue. He is an upright and honorable . . . 
[mutilated] ... in my behalf ; and I would wish, 
therefore, in communicating with the Depart¬ 
ment, that you would use him as tenderly as pos¬ 
sible. Of course, his letter may be sent on, but 
it would be best not to advert to his being con¬ 
nected with the Custom House; and as he holds 
his office from the Collector, it is very probable 
that the Department may not know him in an 
official character. 

My successor’s commission has not yet arrived. 

104 


LIFE IN SALEM 


The enemy is very quiet, and I know little or 
nothing about their motions. 

Mrs. Mann’s letter to Sophia arrived this morn¬ 
ing. 

P. S. The gentlemen above mentioned have 
a high social standing, as well as a political one. 
Mr. Barstow, for instance, you may recollect as 
Vice-President of the Salem Lyceum, where he 
was introduced to you. 


Salem, August 8, 1849. 

My dear Sir, — My case is so simple, and 
the necessary evidence comes from so few sources, 
and is so direct in its application, that I think I 
cannot mistake my way through it; nor do I see 
how it can be prejudiced by my remaining quiet, 
for the present. I will sketch it to you as briefly 
as possible. 

Mr. U. accuses me of suspending one or more 
inspectors for refusing to pay party subscriptions, 
and avers that I sent them a letter of suspension 
by a messenger, whom he names, and that — I 
suppose after the payment of the subscription — 
I withdrew the suspension. 

I shall prove that a question was referred to 
me — as chief executive officer of the Custom 
House — from the Collector’s office, as to what 
action should be taken on a letter from the Trea¬ 
sury Department, requiring the dismissal of our 
temporary inspectors. We had two officers in 
that position. They were Democrats, men with 
large families and no resources, and irreproachable 
10 5 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

as officers; and for these reasons I was unwilling 
that they should lose their situations. In order, 
therefore, to comply with the spirit of the Treasury 
order, without ruining these two men, I projected 
a plan of suspending them from office during the 
inactive season of the year, but without removing 
them, and in such a manner that they might 
return to duty when the state of business should 
justify it. I wrote an order (which I still have 
in my possession) covering these objects, which, 
however, was not intended to be acted on immedi¬ 
ately, but for previous consultation with the Dep¬ 
uty Collector and the head clerk. On consulting 
the latter gentleman, he was of opinion, for vari¬ 
ous reasons which he cited, that the two inspect¬ 
ors might be allowed to remain undisturbed until 
further orders from the Treasury ; to which, as 
the responsibility was entirely with the Collect¬ 
or’s Department, I made no objection. And here, 
so far as I had any knowledge or concern, the 
matter ended. 

But it is said that I notified the inspectors of 
their suspension by a certain person, who is 
named. I have required an explanation of this 
person, and he at once avowed that, being aware 
of this contemplated movement, and being in 
friendly relations with these two men, he thought 
it his duty to inform them of it; but he most 
distinctly states that he did it without my author¬ 
ity or knowledge, and that he will testify to this 
effect whenever I call upon him so to do. I did 
not inquire what communication he had with the 

ic6 


LIFE IN SALEM 


two inspectors, or with either of them; for I 
look upon his evidence as clearing me, whatever 
may have passed between him and them. But 
my idea is (I may be mistaken, but it is founded 
on some observation of the manoeuvres of small 
politicians, and knowing the rigid discipline of 
custom houses as to party subscriptions) that 
there really was an operation to squeeze an assess¬ 
ment out of the recusant inspectors, under the 
terror of an impending removal or suspension; 
that one of the inspectors turned traitor, and 
was impelled, by the threats and promises of Mr. 
U. and his coadjutors, to bring his evidence to a 
pretty direct point on me; and that Mr. U., in 
his memorial to the Treasury Department, defined 
and completed the lie, in such shape as I have 
given it above. But I do not see how it can stand 
for a moment against my defense. 

The head clerk (the same Mr. Burchmore whose 
letter I transmitted to you) was turned out a 
week ago, and will gladly give his evidence at 
any moment, proving the grounds on which I 
acted. The other person who is said to have 
acted as messenger is still in office, a weigher 
and gauger, at a salary of $ 1500 per annum. He 
is a poor man, having been in office but two 
years, and expended all his income in paying 
debts for which he was an indorser, and he now 
wishes to get a few hundred dollars to carry him 
to California, or give him some other start in life. 
Still, he will come forward if I call upon him, but, 
of course, would rather wait for his removal, 
107 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

which will doubtless take place before the session 
of Congress. Meantime, I have no object to ob¬ 
tain, worth purchasing at the sacrifice which he 
must make. My surveyorship is lost, and I have 
no expectation, nor any desire, of regaining it. 
My purpose is simply to make such a defense to 
the Senate as will insure the rejection of my suc¬ 
cessor, and thus satisfy the public that I was 
removed on false or insufficient grounds. Then, 
if Mr. U. should give me occasion, — or perhaps 
if he should not, — I shall do my best to kill and 
scalp him in the public prints ; and I think I shall 
succeed. 

I mean soon to comply with your kind invitation 
to come and see you, not on the above business, 
but because I think of writing a schoolbook,— 
or, at any rate, a book for the young, — and should 
highly prize your advice as to what is wanted, and 
how it should be achieved. I mean, as soon as 
possible, — that is to say, as soon as I can find 
a cheap, pleasant, and healthy residence, — to 
remove into the country, and bid farewell forever 
to this abominable city; for, now that my mother 
is gone, I have no longer anything to keep me 
here. 

Sophia and the children are pretty well. With 
my best regards to Mrs. Mann, I am, 

Very truly yours, 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

P. S. Do pardon me for troubling you with this 
long letter: but I am glad to put you in posses¬ 
sion of the facts, in case of accidents. 

108 


LIFE IN SALEM 


I will insert here some letters that relate to this 
time, though written in 1884 : — 

Providence, Rhode Island, September 15. 

Dear Mrs. Lathrop, . . . That matter of the 
memorial fountain, or monument [in honor of “The 
Town Pump ”], which the death of Mrs. Brooks 
prevented our going on with, I trust may yet in 
the fullness of time be accomplished. I have 
a plan which may fructify, although some years 
may intervene before any decided steps can be 
taken. Perhaps it will be just as well to wait, 
after all, until some of those wretches who delight 
in vilifying your father perish from the face of the 
earth. Let us have patience. They are fast 
becoming superannuated, and the “venom of 
their spleen ” will perish with them. They com¬ 
prehend him not, and are willfully blind and deaf. 
Dr. Wheatland estimates that less than a score of 
these strange malignants are now to be met with 
on the streets of Salem. But he has not like me 

“ Unaware, 

Ranging the woods to start a hare, 

Come to the mouth of the dark lair. 

Where growling low, a fierce old bear, 

Lies amid bones and blood.” 

By the bye, I found once that Miss Savage had 
wholly forgotten Hawthorne’s reference to the 
Town Pump which closes his Custom House chap¬ 
ter, and so I put “ The Scarlet Letter ” into my 
valise (she having lost her copy), and two or three 
weeks ago I called at her house and read her the 
109 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

passage. Afterwards, I dropped in to see Mullet, 
and I left the book with him, as he had not read 
it for many years. I think you will like to see a 
note he has written me, so I inclose it. 

Faithfully yours, 

George H. Holden. 

February 5. 

My dear Mrs. Lathrop, — Rummaging 
among my papers, last evening, I ran across an¬ 
other letter from our “bright-eyed” and noble- 
hearted friend Mullet, which I think you will be 
glad to read, because Mullet wrote it. I there¬ 
fore inclose the letter. Mullet is very hard of 
hearing, and on that account goes out but little. 
During the twelve years that I lived in Salem I 
am sure I never once met him on the street. In 
fact, I think I never heard of him, even, till after 
I moved to Providence. I heard of him one day 
at the “ Gazette ” office, and forthwith dug him out. 
He is a great reader. The Harpers have sent me 
all of Rolfe’s Shakespeare, and I found that I have 
duplicate copies of three or four of the Plays. 
These duplicates I shall ask Mullet to oblige me 
by accepting. Mullet is not the chap who bored 
your father so fearfully by endless talk about 
Shakespeare and Napoleon, but he is a prodigious 
admirer of the great dramatist. He has the Plays 
in one huge, unwieldy volume, and for that reason 
reads them less than he would if they were in a 
more handy form. Mullet is a great reader of the 
old English poets (I don’t mean so far back as 
no 


LIFE IN SALEM 


Chaucer and Spenser), and I suppose he can 
repeat from memory thousands of lines. I have 
found no chance to call upon him since I fruitlessly 
rang his doorbell, as stated in his letter. 

Please remind me to tell you about an African 
fetich which Mullet gave me one day, and a 
reminiscence of your father linked therewith. 

Ever faithfully, 

George H. Holden. 

Salem, September io, 1884. 

Dear Mr. Holden, — It was my good fortune 
during the year 1850 to be presented with a copy 
of “ The Scarlet Letter,” together with “ the 
compliments of the author.” Of course, the gift 
was highly prized ; but its fate was that of many 
other volumes, borrowed and never returned. 
A volume of the same, from the late edition 
issued last year, proved a most welcome visitor to 
my enforced seclusion. After the lapse of many 
years I once more had the real pleasure of reading 
over that popular work. The enjoyment derived 
from a fresh perusal of the introductory chapter 
on the Custom House was great indeed. It 
seemed like living over that period of my exist¬ 
ence again. The scenes described in such a mas¬ 
terly manner were vividly before me; and while 
reading I frequently stopped to laugh at the 
scrupulously nice delineation. The zest with 
which I read was heightened by the reproduction 
of the characters in that superlative picture of 
word-painting, for they together with the artist 
hi 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

were vividly — I had almost said palpably — be¬ 
fore me, as though it were a thing of yesterday. 
How real the “patriarchal body of veterans ” ap¬ 
peared, “tipped back in chairs,” and “at times 
asleep; but occasionally might be heard talking 
together in voices between speech and a snore. 
There was no more vivacity than in the drowsy 
drone of so many bumblebees.” However much 
others may be entertained by reading that chapter 
of exquisite humor, those who were the daily wit¬ 
nesses of the scenes for several years can best 
appreciate its nicety and drollery. The “ veteran 
shipmaster,” concerning whom Hawthorne says, 
“ scarcely a day passed that he did not stir me to 
laughter and admiration by his marvelous gift as 
a story-teller,” was Captain Stephen Burchmore, 
the public storekeeper. The stories of them¬ 
selves were generally extravagant and grotesque. 
It was “ the marvelous gift ” of narration that 
carried people off their legs. I have known the 
company present to roar with laughter, and not 
one more convulsed than Mr. Hawthorne. 

Truly yours, 

George W. Mullet. 

Salem, October i, 1883. 

Dear Mr. Holden,—You request me to 
“ write the particulars about the good turn I had 
done Hawthorne in sacrificing my own interests 
in his behalf.” 

Mr. Hawthorne had not been thought of in 
connection with any office in the Custom House 
112 


LIFE IN SALEM 


until after arrangements were made to have them 
filled with others. Richard Lindsay was sup¬ 
ported for the surveyorship and myself for the 
naval office. All necessary documents had been 
forwarded to Washington, duly authenticated, and 
tidings of the appointments daily looked for. 

At this late stage Hawthorne was first suggested 
for Surveyor. The matter was urgently pushed. 
To accomplish it, Lindsay must be prevailed upon 
to withdraw. All were agreed that I was the one 
to engineer the matter, Lindsay and myself be¬ 
ing fast friends, and our relations uninterruptedly 
pleasant. That he would willingly consent was 
not expected, and indeed it was problematical if 
he would at all. I felt exceedingly delicate about 
suggesting the business, as I had in person been 
through the country obtaining signatures from 
resident committees favoring his appointment. I 
therefore voluntarily offered to withdraw my appli¬ 
cation for the naval office in favor of Hawthorne, 
but that found no favor. 

Finally, to secure the desideratum, I proposed 
that Lindsay and self both withdraw, and have 
the offices filled with others. I desired my friend 
should understand that I asked for no sacrifice I 
was not willing to share. My withdrawal was 
stoutly opposed as entirely unnecessary, but it 
was my ultimatum ; on no other condition would 
I move in the matter. The business was then 
broken by me to Lindsay, and it required all the 
persuasion I could exercise to reconcile him to 
the arrangement. The expedient of my own 

113 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

withdrawal brought it about; otherwise it would 
not have been accomplished. 

It now only remained for us to write to Wash¬ 
ington, withdrawing our candidatures, and trans¬ 
ferring all our support to the applications of Haw¬ 
thorne for Surveyor and Howard for Naval Officer. 
Soon their commissions came, and Lindsay and 
myself were subsequently appointed as inspectors 
under Hawthorne. 

At that time I regarded Hawthorne’s appoint¬ 
ment as decidedly popular with the party, with 
men of letters, and with the increasing multitude 
who admired him as one of the brightest stars 
in the literary firmament. 

Never have I experienced the least regret for 
waiving my own advantage to bring the pleasing 
result about. For nearly four years it brought 
me almost daily into proximity with him, either 
officially or casually. The recollection well repays 
the little sacrifice made. His port, his placidity, 
his hours of abstraction, his mild, pleasant voice, 
— no sweeter ever uttered by mortal lips, — are 
all readily recalled. Truly yours, 

G. W. Mullet, 
i 14 


CHAPTER V 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

Plans for retiring into the depths of the coun¬ 
try were made, and Horatio Bridge was requested 
to see what chance there was for a home near the 
ocean, to which Hawthorne always turned as to 
the most desirable neighbor. Mr. Bridge responds 
in part: — 

United States Navy Yard, Portsmouth, N. H. 

August 6, 1849. 

Dear Hawthorne, —... I have looked at 
a house, which you will probably like . . . and it 
commands a fine sea view. If it can be hired, it 
is just the place. ... We are busy in fixing our¬ 
selves in our new quarters, where we shall be 
most happy to see you. Mrs. Bridge joins me 
in kind regards to Mrs. H. and yourself. Love 
to Una and the unseen Julian. 

Yours ever, H. B. 

A letter from Mrs. Bridge, which does not 
mention the year, is a specimen of many similar 
ones from other friends : — 

Philadelphia, July 1. 

My dear Mrs. Hawthorne, — I heard yester¬ 
day by way of Africa that you had not received 
a note which I left at the Winthrop House for 

115 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

you last summer. You must have thought me 
very neglectful. I should have acknowledged the 
receipt of any book you might have sent me ; but 
most sincerely did I thank you for that which had 
given me so much pleasure. I remember very 
distinctly my past knowledge of Mr. Hawthorne 
as an author, and the bitter tears I shed over 
“The Gentle Boy.” When I had read it until I 
thought myself quite hardened to its influence, I 
offered to read it to our dear old nurse, who had 
been the patient listener to the whole family for 
many a year. I prided myself upon my nursery 
reputation for stoicism, which I should lose if my 
voice faltered. I was beginning to doubt my abil¬ 
ity to get calmly through the next page, when the 
old lady exclaimed, in such a truly yet ludicrously 
indignant tone, “ Dretful creturs ! ” that I had a 
fair right to laugh while she wiped the tears off of 
her spectacles. The time gained placed me on a 
firmer footing, and I got safely through thereby. 
I enjoy Mr. Hawthorne’s writings none the less 
now that I can laugh and cry when I am inclined. 
Will you give him my kindest regards. He is 
very often mentioned by Mr. Bridge, who, by the 
way, goes to the Mediterranean in September. I 
hope to join him there. 

With much regard, truly yours, 

C. M. Bridge. 

Promptly, in their hour of misfortune, arrived 
a letter from one of Mrs. Hawthorne’s dearest 
friends, which I give here : — 

116 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

Staten Island, September io, 1849. 

Thank you, my dear Sophia, for your letter. I 
have been thinking a great deal of you lately, and 
was glad to know of your plans. Before I heard 
from you, I had expended a great amount of indig¬ 
nation upon “ General Taylor ” and his myrmi¬ 
dons, and politics and parties, and the whole host 
of public blessings which produce private misfor¬ 
tunes. I am glad you are going to Lenox, be¬ 
cause it is such a beautiful place, and you have 
so many warm friends there. Life is a pretty 
sad affair, dear Sophia; at least, I find it so. . . . 
We have felt that Bob [Colonel Robert Shaw] re¬ 
quired to be removed from home influences, as he 
has no brothers ; and, being unwilling to send him 
to a school of the usual order, we chose the Jesuit 
College at Fordham, near New York, where there 
are a hundred and fifty boys, and a great many 
holy fathers to teach and take care of them. I 
inclose a check from Frank, which he hopes Mr. 
Hawthorne will accept as it is offered, and as he 
would do if the fate had been reversed. He does 
not ask you to accept his gift, — so pay it back 
when you don t want it , here or hereafter, or never. 
I only wish it was a thousand. Dear Sophia, 
when I think of such men as your husband, Page, 
and some others, so pinched and cramped for this 
abominable money, it makes me outrageous. If 
it were one of those trials that do people good, 
it would be bearable; but it kills one down so. 
Shakespeare felt it when he said : — 

117 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

“ Tired with all these, for restful death I cry, 

As, to behold desert a beggar born, 

And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity.” 

God bless you, dear Sophia, —as He has, not¬ 
withstanding General Taylor. Believe me ever 
most affectionately your friend, S. B. S. 

Miss Elizabeth Hoar, engaged to Mr. Emer¬ 
son’s brother Charles, who died in youth, writes 
letters of regret for the departure of the Haw¬ 
thornes from Concord : — 

. . . Remember me to Mr. Hawthorne and 
beautiful Una. That you three have lived here 
in Concord for so many fair days is a page of 
romance which I shall not forget; whatever hap¬ 
pens, so much we have and cannot lose. 

Affectionately always, 

E. Hoar. 

... I should like very much to see you and 
Mr. Hawthorne, and your Una and her brother, 
and have made two unsuccessful efforts to spend 
a day with you in Salem. I was in New Haven 
at the time of the publication of the “ Mosses,” 
and all my friends were reading them. I found 
myself quite a lion because I knew Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne ; and became a sort of author in my turn, 
by telling stories of the inhabitants of the Old 
Manse, omitted in the printed books. Father was 
charmed with them, and wrote to me quite at 
length about them. Pray remember me to Mr. 

118 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

Hawthorne, and give him my thanks for writing 
the book. Mr. Emerson is in Paris from May 6th 
to 30th, then lectures in London six times, and 
sees everybody and everything. I am heartily 
glad. He has letters which are to show him 
Lamartine. 

Affectionately yours, 

Elizabeth Hoar. 

The first Mrs. Lowell, who had long been an 
intimate friend of my mother's, sends beautiful let¬ 
ters, from which I will make selections, too lovely 
to be set aside : — 

“ How blessed it is that God sends these ‘ per¬ 
petual messiahs ’ among us, to lead us back to 
innocence and free-heartedness and faith. ... I 
have seen a picture of the Annunciation in which 
Mary is reading the prophecy of the Messiah’s 
coming. . . . Mary is a type of all women, and I 
love the Roman Catholic feeling that enshrines 
and appeals to her. It has its root in the very 
deepest principle of life. . . . James is very well, 
and to say that he is very happy, too, is unneces¬ 
sary to any one who knows his elastic, joyful 
nature. . . . When I feel well and strong, I feel 
so well and strong that I could, like Atlas, bear 
the world about with me. ... I love to work 
with my hands ; to nail, to glue, to scour, to dig; 
all these satisfy a yearning in my nature for some¬ 
thing substantial and honest. My mother often 
tells me I was born to be a poor man’s wife, I 
have such an aptitude for all trades.” 

Ir 9 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

... Is not June the crown of the year, the Car¬ 
nival of Nature, when the very trees pelt each other 
with blossoms, and are stirring and bending when 
no wind is near them, because they are so full of 
inward life, and must shiver for joy to feel how 
fast the sap is rushing up from the ground ? On 
such days can you sing anything but, “ Oh, beau¬ 
tiful Love ” ? Does n’t it seem as if Nature wore 
your livery and wished to show the joy of your 
heart in every possible form ? The everlasting 
hum and seething of myriad life satisfies and 
soothes me. I feel as if something were going on 
in the world, else why all this shouting, and be¬ 
decking of every weed in its best, this endless 
strain from every tiny weed or great oaken flute ? 
All that cannot sing, dances ; the gnats in the air 
and the long-legged spiders on the water. Even 
the ants and beetles, the workers that are quoted 
for examples by hoarding men, run about doing 
nothing, putting their busy antennae into every¬ 
thing, tumbling over the brown mould for sheer 
enjoyment, and running home at last without the 
little white paper parcel in their mouths which 
gives them so respectable an air. Doubtless the 
poor things are scolded by their infirm parents, 
who sit sunning themselves at the door of the 
house. . . . Beetles seem to me to have a plea¬ 
sant life, because they, who have fed for two or 
three years underground upon the roots, come 
forth at last winged, and find their nourishment 
in the blooms of the very same tree. It comforts 
me, because we have ourselves to eat many bitter 
120 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

roots here, whose perfect flower shall one day 
delight us. This, dear Sophia, has been a long 
ramble. I promised to copy that sonnet of 
James’s for you, so I inclose it. 

With true sympathy and love, 
Affectionately yours, 

Maria White. 

From George S. Hillard came the following 
letter. On the envelope my father has written 
Hillard’s name and “The Scarlet Letter,” show¬ 
ing with what interest he preserved this friend’s 
criticism and praise. On the other side of the 
envelope is written, “Foi, Foi, Faith.” No one 
ever was more faithful to, and consequently ever 
had more faith in, his friends than my father. 

Boston, March 28, 1850. 

My dear Hawthorne, — You have written a 
most remarkable book; in point of literary talent, 
beyond all your previous efforts; a book full of 
tragic power, nice observation, delicate tact, and 
rare knowledge of the human heart. I think it 
will take a place in our literature among the high¬ 
est efforts of what may be called the Tragic Muse 
of fiction. You are, intellectually speaking, quite 
a puzzle to me. How comes it that with so thor¬ 
oughly healthy an organization as you have, you 
have such a taste for the morbid anatomy of the 
human heart, and such knowledge of it, too ? I 
should fancy from your books that you were bur¬ 
dened with secret sorrow ; that you had some blue 
121 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

chamber in your soul, into which you hardly dared 
to enter yourself; but when I see you, you give 
me the impression of a man as healthy as Adam 
was in Paradise. For my own taste, I could wish 
that you would dwell more in the sun, and con¬ 
verse more with cheerful thoughts and lightsome 
images, and expand into a story the spirit of the 
Town Pump. But while waiting for this, let me 
be thankful for the weird and sad strain which 
breathes from “The Scarlet Letter,” which I read 
with most absorbing interest. 

Yours ever, 

Geo. S. Hillard. 

The owner of the cottage which the Haw¬ 
thornes hired in Lenox sends a welcome : — 

Dear Sophia, — Since we came up here, I 
have examined the little house you think of taking, 
and cannot but hope you will take the red house 
in preference; for although that is not so large or 
convenient as I wish it were for you, it is much 
more so than the little garden house. You have 
a rough plan of that, which Mr. Tappan drew for 
Mr. Hawthorne, and I will give you one of this. 
There are four good sleeping-rooms upstairs, but 
without fireplaces, and could only be ameliorated 
in winter by an entry stove. The house is plea¬ 
santly situated, having a view of the Lake, as you 
know. The road passing by the red house is 
so little traveled that it is no annoyance. Per¬ 
haps you and Mr. Hawthorne would like to come 
122 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 


and see the houses for yourselves ; if so, we shall 
be very glad to have you stay with us. I have no 
time to tell you how lovely it is here, or how glad 
we are you are coming. 

Affectionately yours, 

Caroline Tapp an. 

The search for a desirable hillside or meadow 
space where they might make a new home, away 
from city streets and the hurrying prisoners upon 
them, was pleasantly ended for the Hawthornes. 
The transfer of the little family to Lenox soon 
occurred, and to the “ red house,” which was in 
existence until lately. I will quote a description 
of the cottage and the views about the spot, given 
in a Stockbridge paper not long after the small 
dwelling disappeared : — 

“ On a stand in the curious old hotel in Stock- 
bridge is a charred chunk of an oaken house- 
beam that is as carefully treasured as if it were of 
gold ; and every guest strolling through the par¬ 
lor wherein it is shown halts and gazes at it with 
a singular interest. A placard pinned to the 
cinder explains in these words why it is treasured 
and why the people gaze at it: ‘ Relic from the 
Hawthorne Cottage.’ The Hawthorne Cottage 
stood half a mile out of Stockbridge on the road 
to Lenox. It was burned two months ago. It 
was a little red story-and-a-half house on a lonely 
farm, and an old farmer, himself somewhat of a 
bookworm, dwelt in it with his family at the time 
it mysteriously took fire. The cottage was a 
123 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

landmark, because Nathaniel Hawthorne dwelt 
therein in 1850 and 1851 fora year and a half. 
A great many people go out to see the ruins 
of it. 

“ Drive along a lonely winding road through 
a homely New England district several hundred 
yards west of the pretentious mansions of Stock- 
bridge, pass through a breezy open patch of pines, 
and one comes to a characteristic hillside New 
England orchard, the branches of whose trees 
just now are bright with ripening red apples. 
On the hillslope in the middle of the orchard and 
overlooking the famous ‘ Stockbridge Bowl ’ — a 
round deep tarn among the hills — are the brick 
cellar walls and brick underpinning of what was a 
very humble dwelling — the Hawthorne Cottage. 
About the ruins is a quiet, modest, New Eng¬ 
land neighborhood. There is not much to see 
at the site of the Hawthorne Cottage, yet every 
day fashionable folk from New York and Boston 
and a score of western cities drive thither with 
ine equipages and jingling harness, halt, and look 
curiously for a minute or two at the green turf 
of the dooryard and the crumbling brick walls of 
the cottage site.” 

To go from Salem to Lenox was to contrast 
very forcibly the somewhat oppressed spirits of 
historical association with the healthy grandeur 
of nature. The books my father wrote here 
embrace this joy of untheoried, peaceful, or glori¬ 
ously perturbed life of sky and land. Theory 
of plot or principle was as much beneath him as 
124 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

the cobble-stones; from self-righteous harangues 
he turned as one who had heard a divine voice 
that alone deserved to declare. He taught as 
Nature does, always leading to thoughts of some¬ 
thing higher than the dictum of men, and nobler 
than their greatest beauty of action. He said it 
was difficult for him to write in the presence of 
such a view as the “ little red house ” commanded. 
It certainly must have been a scene that expressed 
otherwise unutterable sublimity. But if my father 
struggled to bring his human power forward in 
the presence of an outlook that so reminded him 
of God, he did bring it forward there, and we 
perceive the aroma and the color which his work 
could not have gained so well in a town or a vil¬ 
lage covert. 

Mrs. Hawthorne’s letters, written for the plea¬ 
sure of her family, in spite of her growing cares, 
continue to be a source of intelligence to us : — 

My dear Lizzie, — I have just received your 
letter, for which I am very glad. You say that 
mother may come to-night. I truly hope she 
will. But as the heavy fog we had here this 
morning may have been a rain in Boston, I write 
now, to request father to go to Oak Hall, or to 
some ready-made linen-store, and buy Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne two linen sacks, well made, and good 
linen. He is a perfect bunch of rags, and he will 
not let me make him anything to wear — abso¬ 
lutely will not. But he consents that something 
shall be bought. If mother should be delayed 
125 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


beyond Monday, this can be done; otherwise it 
cannot. 

I am very sorry about the little books; but I 
do not see any help. Ticknor & Co. were going 
to have illustrations drawn for them, and Mr. 
Hawthorne thinks they are begun, that money 
has been expended, and that it is too late to 
change the plan. He says, he is bound by his 
engagement, and cannot recede ; but that if you 
can change their purposes independently of him, 
— if they are willing, he is. Mr. Fields has not 
said a word about the Fairy Tales, and I do not 
know whether Mr. H. intends to write them now. 
I never ask him what he is about. But I know 
he is not writing seriously this hot weather. 

God bless you all, 

SOPHIECHEN. 


Sunday. 

My dear Mother, —This has been a dull 
“heaven’s day” for the children, who have not 
been so merry as on a sunny day. I have read 
to- them, and shown them my drawings of Flax- 
man’s Iliad and Odysse and Hesiod. I wish you 
could have seen them the other day, acting Giant 
Despair and Mrs. Diffidence. They were sitting 
on chairs opposite the doorsteps ; Julian with one 
little leg over the other, in a nonchalant attitude; 
Una also in negligent position. They were dis¬ 
cussing their prisoners, Hopeful and Christian, in 
very gruff and unamiable voices. “ Well, what 
had we better do with them ? ” “ Oh, beat them 

126 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

pretty well, every day! ” The air of the two fig¬ 
ures, and their tones, in comparison with the faces 
and forms, were very funny. I heard Una tell* 
ing Julian that Christian’s bundle was a “ bunch 
of naughtiness.” Julian became Columbus all at 
once, on Friday, and ran in from out of doors to 
get some blocks to build a cross on the island 
which he had discovered. He said, “ Where is my 
sword to hold in my hand when I get out of my 
ship ? ” [He was between four and five years old.] 

Sunday, 20th. 

A famous snowstorm. I read from Spenser to 
the children, in the morning, of St. George and 
Una, Una and the Lion, and Prince Arthur. 
Then, Cinderella. They made an exquisite pic¬ 
ture, with the hobby-horse. Julian was upon the 
horse,—as a king; Una at his side, presenting 
ambrosia. In the p. m. I read them Andersen’s 
“ Angel and Child,” “The Swineherd,” and “ Lit¬ 
tle Ida’s Flowers ; ” and their father read to them 
from “ The Black Aunt.” In the evening my 
husband read to me the “ Death of Adam and 
Eve,” by Montgomery, and something of Crabbe’s. 

Tuesday , 22d. Clear, splendid day. The chil¬ 
dren took their little straw baskets and went to 
find flowers. They were gone a great while, and 
came back with a charming bunch — arbutus, ane¬ 
mones, violets, and houstonia. 

They went to walk with their father in the 
afternoon, to the woods and mountains, and 
brought home arbutus; and Julian, laurel for me 
127 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

to make a wreath for papa’s head, — laurel of last 
year. 

23d. Julian arranged his cabinet of shells and 
animals, hammered, ran like a wolf, told stories 
to himself, helped me make beds, and held cotton 
for me to wind, watched Mr. Tappan at his young 
trees, and when his father came down [from writ¬ 
ing upstairs] played with him. I sewed all the 
evening while my husband read the “Castle of 
Indolence,” and finished it. 

Dearest Lizzie, — Mrs. Sedgwick takes the 
most kind and motherly interest in my affairs. 
Both she and her husband come quite often, and 
Mr. Sedgwick sends Mr. Hawthorne a great 
many papers. I wish you would tell me whether 
you think Tall Ann is able to do our work; but 
from what she said about being deprived of the 
Church services and Holy Communion, I know 
she would not do without them. She would be 
as quiet here as in heaven. There have been a 
succession of golden days for a long while, and 
I have thought 

“ Time had run back, and brought the age of gold,” 

it has been so superb. It is now a golden and 
rose-colored twilight. The most distant moun¬ 
tains are of the palest azure, and the Lake, pale 
rose. It is haymaking season, and the children 
roam abroad with the haymakers, — oh, such 
happy hours ! The air is fragrant with the dying 
breath of clover and sweet-scented grass. J ulian 
128 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

is getting nut-brown. He is a real chestnut. We 
are all wonderfully happy, and I can conceive of 
no greater peace and content. Last Sunday 
afternoon we all went to the Lake, and Una and 
I wove a laurel wreath, and Una crowned her 
father. For mountain - laurel grows about us. 
We have now twelve hens. Twice a day we all 
go and feed them. We go in single file. Mr. 
Hawthorne called it to-day the procession of the 
equinoxes. The hens have some of them been 
named: Snowdrop, Crown Imperial, Queenie, 
and Fawn. Snowdrop is very handsome and 
white. 

Mrs. Hawthorne’s mother writes to her in this 
manner: — 

June 8, 1850. 

My Beloved, — Esther Sturgis brought me 
your letter yesterday. ... I hope you have time 
to enjoy this fine weather. I please myself with 
imagining various enjoyments for you all in the 
peaceful scenes around you, maugre the house¬ 
hold cares that must fall to your lot. May the 
spirit of inspiration drive all petty cares from 
your husband, and fill his soul with thoughts that 
shall bear blessings to ages yet unborn! He 
must write — therefore you must court the love 
of the humble, whose destiny it is to lighten the 
labors of the gifted ones of the earth. I feel 
ashamed when I detect myself in thinking that a 
kitchen-maid is lower in the scale of being than I 
am. What would the learned and the gifted do if 
129 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


there was no humble one to make the bread that 
supports life ? Kiss your precious little ones, 
and tell them that grandmamma thinks of them 
daily; that in spirit she joins in their charming 
walks, in their search for flowers, in their admira¬ 
tion of the woods, mountains, and fields, and in 
their holy inspirations while gazing at the glories 
of the starlit heavens, or the rising or setting sun. 
May God bless and keep you all. 

Your Mother. 


August I. 

My dearest Mother, — I was more troubled 
at the hindrance Mr. Hawthorne suffered by 
our being without help a fortnight than by any¬ 
thing else, because he would not let me bear any 
weight of care or labor, but insisted upon doing 
everything himself. Yet he says that he cannot 
write deeply during midsummer, at any rate. He 
can only seize the skirts of ideas and pin them 
down for further investigation. Besides, he has 
not recovered his pristine vigor. The year end¬ 
ing in June was the trying year of his life, as 
well as of mine [on account of political calumny], 
I have not yet found again all my wings; neither 
is his tread yet again elastic. But the ministra¬ 
tions of nature will have their effect in due time. 
Mr. Hawthorne thinks it is Salem which he is 
dragging at his ankles still. ... Yes, we find 
kindest friends on every side. The truest friend¬ 
liness is the great characteristic of the Sedgwick 
family in all its branches. They seem to delight 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

to make happy, and they are as happy as summer 
days themselves. They really take the responsi¬ 
bility of my being comfortable, as if they were 
mother, father, brother, sister. We have fallen 
into the arms of loving-kindness, and cannot suf¬ 
fer for any aid or support in emergencies. This 
I know will give you a reposeful content concern¬ 
ing us. Mr. Tappan is a horn of benefits. He 
seems to have the sweetest disposition; and his 
shy, dark eyes are always gleaming with hospi¬ 
table smiles for us. We could not be in more 
agreeable circumstances, very well, — only I feel 
rather too far from you all. I want you to come, 
to avoid those terrible prostrations from heat. 
Here, we will give you a fresh egg every morn¬ 
ing, beaten up to a foam with new milk ; and you 
shall have honey in the comb, and sweetest vege¬ 
tables out of our garden, and currants to refresh 
your parched mouth. And you shall have peace, 
and rest, and quiet walks in stately woods; and 
you shall sit in the barn upon clover hay, and see 
the dear children play about and rejoice in your 
presence. You shall see us feed the hennipen- 
nies, and hear that most quiet sound of their 
clucking and murmuring. 

Last Saturday night who should appear but 
Mr. O’Sullivan! The last we had heard of him 
was that he had the yellow fever at New Orleans, 
and that he was arrested for some movements 
with regard to Cuba. He is now on bail, and 
will return to be tried in December. He re¬ 
turned to Stockbridge that night, and on Monday 

131 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

came in a double carriage and took us there, to 
the house of Mrs. Field, an old friend of his mo¬ 
ther’s. We were received with the most whole¬ 
hearted hospitality, and Una and I stayed all 
night, and Mr. O’Sullivan brought Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne and Julian back, because Mr. Hawthorne 
did not wish to stay. I stayed ostensibly to go 
to a torchlight festival in an ice glen, but I wished 
more to see the O’Sullivans than the festival. 
We had a charming visit. Mrs. Field carried me 
to the scene of the sacrifice of Everell in “ Hope 
Leslie,” for it is upon her estate, —a superb hill 
covered with laurels, — and this sacrifice rock 
near the summit, and the council chambers be¬ 
neath. That was where the noble Magawesca’s 
arm was stricken off. The children enjoyed 
themselves extremely, and behaved so beautifully 
that they won all hearts. They thought that 
there never was such a superb child as Julian, 
nor such a grace as Una. “ They are neither too 
shy, nor bold,” said Mrs. Field, “but just right.” 
There was a huge black Newfoundland dog, 
Hero, which delighted Julian, and he rode on its 
back; and a little white silk dog, Fay, very 
piquant and intelligent. It was a large, rambling 
mansion, with india-rubber rooms that always 
stretch to accommodate any number of guests, Mr. 
O’Sullivan said, such is Mrs. Field’s boundless 
hospitality. The house stands in a bower of trees, 
and behind it is the richest dell, out of which 
rises Laurel Hill, which in its season is one of 
perfect bloom. Rustic seats are at hand all 
132 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

about, and the prettiest winding paths, and 
glimpses of the Housatonic River gem the plain. 
It has not the wide scope and proud effect of our 
picture, but it is the dearest, sweetest, lovingest 
retreat one can imagine. Mr. O’Sullivan took 
me to see Mrs. Harry Sedgwick, in the evening; 
a noble woman with a gleam in her face. I owed 
her a call. There I also saw Mrs. Robert Sedg¬ 
wick, and the Ashburners, who called upon us at 
High wood. 

We went to a bridge where we could see the 
torchlight party come out of the Ice Glen, and 
it looked as if a host of stars had fallen out of the 
sky, and broken to pieces ; so said the Count O’S. 
We waited till they arrived to us, and then we 
saw Mrs. Charles Sedgwick and her pretty school¬ 
girls embark in an endless open omnibus for Lenox. 
They were all lighted up by the burning torches, 
and were dressed in fantastic costumes of brilliant 
colors, scarlet being predominant. Those girls 
looked like a bouquet of bright flowers, as they 
sat waving farewells, and receiving with smiles the 
cheers of all the young gentlemen, who raised 
their torches and shouted, “ Hurrah ! ” Poor, 
dear Mrs. Charles! She looked so warm and so 
flushed — just like a torch, herself ! — and so 
lovely, kind, and happy, in the midst of her living 
roses. Above, serenely shone myriads of pale 
stars in the clear sky; around the horizon, heat- 
lightning flashed. The moon was rising in the 
east; and in the north, the aurora borealis 
bloomed like a vast lily. It was really a rare 
i33 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

scene. We returned to Mrs. Harry Sedgwick's. 
There she stood, receiving the greetings of the 
members of the party ; every gentleman bearing 
a torch, which lighted up a rosy face at his side. 
Such happiness as they enjoyed — such spirit and 
such mirth ! It was worth witnessing. I found 
that everybody of note in Stockbridge dearly loves 
our friend, Mr. O’Sullivan. He is the “ pet ” and 
“darling ” and “the angelic ” with them all. And 
through him we were known to them. 

Most affectionately, 

Sophiechen. 

September 4. 

My dearest Mother, —To-day, Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne and Mr. Melville have gone to dine at 
Pittsfield. Mr. Tappan took them in his carriage. 
I went to High wood after breakfast, to ask for 
the carriage and horses, as you know Mr. Tappan 
has put them at our disposition, if we will only 
drive. I found James sitting in state at the gate, 
in the wagon, and concluded that there was no 
hope. But behold, Mr. Tappan was just about 
starting for Pittsfield, himself; and with the most 
beautiful cordiality of hospitality he said he 
would come over to take the gentlemen. This 
would have been no particular courtesy in some 
persons, but for this shy dear, who particularly 
did not wish, for some reason, to be introduced to 
Mr. Melville, it was very pretty. I have no doubt 
he will be repaid by finding Mr. Melville a very 
different man from what he imagines, and very 
i34 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

agreeable and entertaining. We find him so. A 
man with a true, warm heart, and a soul and an 
intellect, — with life to his finger-tips ; earnest, 
sincere, and reverent; very tender and modest. 
And I am not sure that he is not a very great 
man ; but I have not quite decided upon my own 
opinion. I should say, I am not quite sure that / 
do not think him a very great man ; for my opin¬ 
ion is, of course, as far as possible from settling the 
matter. He has very keen perceptive power; but 
what astonishes me is, that his eyes are not large 
and deep. He seems to see everything very accu¬ 
rately ; and how he can do so with his small eyes, I 
cannot tell. They are not keen eyes, either, but 
quite undistinguished in any way. His nose is 
straight and rather handsome, his mouth expres¬ 
sive of sensibility and emotion. He is tall and 
erect, with an air free, brave, and manly. When 
conversing, he is full of gesture and force, and 
loses himself in his subject. There is no grace 
nor polish. Once in a while, his animation gives 
place to a singularly quiet expression, out of these 
eyes to which I have objected; an indrawn, dim 
look, but which at the same time makes you feel 
that he is at that instant taking deepest note of 
what is before him. It is a strange, lazy glance, 
but with a power in it quite unique. It does not 
seem to penetrate through you, but to take you 
into himself. I saw him look at Una so, yester¬ 
day, several times. He says it is Mr. Mathews 
who is writing in “The Literary World” the visit 
to Berkshire. Mr. Mathews calls Mr. Hawthorne 
i35 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

“Mr. Noble Melancholy,” in the next number of 
the paper. You know, what you read was the 
introduction only. It is singular how many peo¬ 
ple insist that Mr. Hawthorne is gloomy, since he 
is not. He is pensive, perhaps, as all contempla¬ 
tive persons must be ; especially when, as in him, 
“ a great heart is the household fire of a grand 
intellect ” (to quote his own words), because he 
sees and sympathizes with all human suffering. 
He has always seemed to me, in his remote moods, 
like a stray Seraph, who had experienced in his 
own life no evil, but by the intention of a divine 
intellect, saw and sorrowed over all evil. 

[Among my mother’s early letters to my father, 
this poem, written in her fine, delicate hand upon 
old-fashioned fancy note paper, was evidently her 
expression of this feeling.] 

THE SERAPH AND THE DOVE. 

A Seraph strayed to earth from upper spheres, 
Impelled by inward motion, vague yet strong: 

He knew not wherefore he must leave the throng 
Of kindred hierarchs for a world of tears : 

But, mailed in proof divine, he felt no fears, 

Obedient to an impulse clear of wrong: 

And so he ceased awhile his heavenly song, 

To measure his immortal life by years. 

His arched brow uprose, a throne of light, 

Where ordered thought a rule superior held; 

Within his eyes celestial splendors dwell’d, 

Ready to glow and bless with subject might, 

When he should find why God had sent him here, 

Shot like a star from out his native sphere. 

136 


FROM SALEM TO BERKSHIRE 

He was alone; he stood apart from men : 

His simple nature could not solve their ways ; 

For he had lived a life of love and praise, 

And they forgot that God their Source had been. 

So mused he on the visions of his mind, 

Which, wondrous fair, recalled his home above : 

He wist not why he was to space confin’d, 

But waited, trusting in Omnific love. 

Then lo ! came fluttering to his arms a Dove, 

Which for her foot had never yet found rest: 

The Seraph folded her within his breast, 

And as he felt the brooding warmth, he conscious, 
smiled and said, 

“Yes, Father! Heaven can only be where kindred 
spirits wed! ” 

[“ My Dove ” was one of my father’s names for 
my mother ; he found her a seal with a dove upon 
it. She several times referred to this title with 
joy, in talks with me.] 

As his life has literally been so pure from the 
smallest taint of earthliness, it can only be be¬ 
cause he is a Seer, that he knows of crime. Not 
Julian’s little (no, great) angel heart and life are 
freer from any intention or act of wrong than his. 
And this is best proof to me of the absurdity of 
the prevalent idea that it is necessary to go through, 
the fiery ordeal of sin to become wise and good., 
I think such an idea is blasphemy and the unpar¬ 
donable sin. It is really abjuring God’s voice 
within. We have not received, as we ought to 
have done, the last Saturday’s number of “ The 
Literary World.” I have a great curiosity to 
i37 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

read about “Mr. Noble Melancholy.” Poor 
aunty! [Her aunt Pickman.] I really do not 
believe Shakespeare will be injured by being 
spoken of in the same paper with Mr. Hawthorne. 
But no comparison is made between them, though 
there is no reason why one great man may not be 
compared to another. There is no absolute differ¬ 
ence in created souls, after all; and the intuitions 
of genius are identical, necessarily ; for what is an 
intuition of genius but God’s truth, revealed to a 
soul in high communion ? I suppose it is not im¬ 
possible for another Shakespeare to culminate. 
Even I — little bit of a tot of I — have some¬ 
times recognized my own thought in Shakespeare. 
But do not tell aunt Pickman of this. Not believ¬ 
ing in an absolute source of thought, she would 
pronounce me either irrecoverably insane or infi¬ 
nitely self-conceited. 

Here is John. — No more. 

138 


Sophia. 


CHAPTER VI 


LENOX 

One of the authors in that excellent company 
congregated at this period in this part of Berk¬ 
shire — Mr. Mansfield — writes to Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne for the pleasure of the thing ; and one 
fairly hears the drone of time as the days hang 
ripe and sleepy upon his hands. I quote a few 
paragraphs from his letters : — 

Home, January 15, 1851. 

Dear Madam, — It was very kind in you to 
take up my affairs, and I will say here upon the 
margin of this reply, that I should have very 
much liked your opinion of the “Pundison Let¬ 
ters” I sent out; but now — so long ago is it — 
I have had time to let my whimsical nature find 
some other occupation; and the “ Up-Country 
Letters ” may lie as they are, not unlikely for the 
next thousand years. I am absorbed and busied 
with Bishop Butler’s Analogy, which is all things 
to me at this present; and I am not sure that 
“The House of the Seven Gables” could tempt 
me away from it until I get my fill. . . . The 
Bishop is great, and I hope to have him with me 
until the frost comes out of the ground, and I can 
busy myself with Nature herself. 

139 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

I laughed the other day loud and long at a 
report of the plot of “ The House of the Seven 
Gables/' in a letter to a lady. . . . The remark 
was, that “the plot of ‘The House of the Seven 
Gables' was — deepening damnably.” . . . You 
speak of “the crimson and violet sunrises, and 
the green and gold sunsets,” etc.; and I am glad 
to get so good an authority for the fact of mixed 
colors in sunrising. In my little book, I speak 
somewhere of “ the silver and rose tint flame of 
the morning.” . . . My wife, who sends her love, 
has taken possession of your note, and is to keep 
it somewhere “ with care.” That is, it is to be so 
carefully hidden that no one will ever find it. 
Perhaps she is a little jealous ; but, in any case, 
she wants the autograph. Please make my re¬ 
gards to the man in “ The House of the Seven 
Gables,” and believe me, with sincere respect, 

Y ours — obliged — 

L. W. Mansfield. 

Home, January 22. 

Dear Madam, — I suppose Mr. Hawthorne 
will smile at the idea of my writing him a letter 
of condolence, and such I do not intend ; but I 
have been a little provoked at an article in “ The 
Church Review; ” and whether Mr. Hawthorne 
cares for my opinion or not, it will be a relief and 
satisfaction for me to say my say about it. Nor 
do I suppose that he can live so exclusively in a 
world of his own as not to be pleased at know¬ 
ing that his friends recognize as such any im- 
140 


LENOX 


pertinence that may be said about him. In this 
case also it comes home to the question which 
I submitted in the “ Up-Country Letters,” which 
I sent you. Now I will say (and I venture to 
say that I am one of twenty thousand respectable 
people that would say the same) that the little 
bits of personal description and reference which 
Mr. Hawthorne has given in two instances have 
added—I was going to say tenfold to the interest 
which attaches to all his writings, and so mod¬ 
estly and quietly, and in such exquisite taste were 
those references made, that it does strike me as 
the sublime of stupidity that any one could mis¬ 
understand them. . . . 

Please excuse my long letter, and believe me, 
with sincere regards, yours, 

L. W. Mansfield. 

My mother’s notes of every-day life proceed: — 

yanuary 2. This morning, one cloud in the 
east looked like a goldfish close to the horizon. 
I began to build a snow-house with the children, 
and shoveled paths. 

5th. I walked out in the splendid sunset with 
the children, to meet papa. I told them, on the 
way, the story of Genevieve. 

10th. Walked before dinner with the children 
along the road, telling them of Mary, Queen of 
Scots. 

nth. My husband read me the preface to the 
141 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

third edition of the “ Twice-Told Tales.” It is 
absolutely perfect, of course. 

Sunday, 12th. My husband came down from 
writing at three. It was reviving to see him. I 
took dear little Julian and walked to Mr. Wilcox’s 
barn. He enjoyed it as much as I did; the soft 
hues of the mountains, the slumbering sunshine, 
and the sparkling snow which towards sunset 
became violet color. He stooped down to lap 
up snow, and shouted, “Oh, how pretty! ” and I 
found he was admiring the shining globes. “ They 
lie on the air, mamma! ” said he. Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne received a request for an autograph, and 
an autobiography! 

13th. In the evening my husband said he 
should begin to read his book [“The House of 
the Seven Gables ”]. Oh, joy unspeakable ! 

14th. When the children had gone to bed, my 
husband took his manuscript again. I am always 
so dazzled and bewildered with the richness of 
beauty in his productions, that I look forward 
to a second reading during which I can ponder 
and muse. The reading closed with a legend, so 
graphic, so powerful, with such a strain of grace 
and witchery through it, that I seemed to be in 
a trance. Such a vision as Alice, with so few 
touches, such a real existence! The sturdy, 
handsome, and strong Maule; the inevitable fate, 
“ the innocent suffering for the guilty ,” seemingly 
so dark, yet so clear a law ! 

15th. Sewed all day, thinking only of Maule’s 
Well. The sunset was a great, red ball of fire. 

142 


LENOX 


In the evening, the manuscript was again read 
from. How ever more wonderful! How trans¬ 
parent are all events in life to my husband’s 
awful power of insight; and how he perpetually 
brings up out of the muddied wells the pearl of 
price! 

16th. The sun rose fiery red, like a dog-day 
sun. Julian is a prisoner, because his india-rub¬ 
bers are worn out. I looked forward all day 
to listening to my husband’s inspirations in the 
evening; but behold ! he has no more as yet to 
read. This morning Julian sat down in a little 
chair and took his father’s foot on his lap. “I 
want to be papa’s toadstool!” said Julian, mak¬ 
ing one of his funniest mistakes. My husband 
proposed reading “Thalaba.” I was glad, though 
Southey is no favorite of mine. But I like to be 
familiar with such things, and to hear my hus¬ 
band’s voice is the best music. Mrs. Sedgwick 
called to see us. 

18th. In the morning I took the children and 
went to Luther’s. We went to the barn to find 
him, and there he was, grinding oats. The chil¬ 
dren were much grieved and very indignant be¬ 
cause the horse was in a treadmill, and could not 
stop if he would. 

22d. Mild. In the morning Anna Greene 
appeared at my door. I was rejoiced to see her. 
She stayed two hours. In the evening Herman 
Melville came, and Anna again, also. 

23d. Anna Greene came early, and wanted us 
to walk with her, on this warm, radiant day. We 
143 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

went to the Lake, with the children, and had a 
delightful talk. In the evening Anna and Caro¬ 
line Tappan came ; and we had champagne and 
beaten egg, which they thought ethereal bever¬ 
age. Caroline said she had wanted just this all 
winter. 

24th. In the evening my husband read De 
Quincey. 

Sunday , 26th. I read all over to myself “ The 
House of the Seven Gables,” in manuscript. 

29th. In the midst of a storm, who should 
appear at the door of our shanty but Sarah Shaw! 
Anna Greene only began the glories of arrivals. I 
cannot tell how glad I was to see her. It was 
perfectly delightful to talk with her again, after 
a separation of four years. 

February 1. In the evening my husband read 
" David Copperfield.” I cannot express how 
much I enjoy it, made vocal by him. He reads 
so wonderfully. Each person is so distinct; his 
tones are so various, apt, and rich. I believe that 
in his breast is Gabriel’s harp. It is better than 
any acting I ever saw on the stage. 

5th. My husband answered a letter from Rob¬ 
ert Adair, of Kentucky, which was to appoint 
him an honorary member of the Prescott Literary 
Society there. I took a walk with the children 
to the brook. 

9th. Two proofs came of “The House of the 
Seven Gables,” which I read with fresh interest. 
There never was such perfection of style. 

12th. We all walked out, papa and Una to 
144 


LENOX 


the Lake, and across it, and Julian and I on the 
sunny side of the house. There was a golden 
sunset. 

19th. My husband took the children out on 
the ice-bound lake. He read aloud “ Samson 
Agonistes ” in the evening. 

March 3. Una’s birthday. She is seven years 
old. My husband began “Wallenstein.” 

5th. Mr. Ticknor sent five engraved heads of 
Mr. Hawthorne. The face is very melancholy. 

8th. Mr. Tappan thinks Mr. Hawthorne’s por¬ 
trait looks like Tennyson. 

10th. Mrs. Sedgwick brought me a letter from 
Elizabeth Bartol. My husband read me Pope's 
" Epistles.” 

12th. At dusk arrived Herman Melville from 
Pittsfield. He was entertained with champagne 
foam, manufactured of beaten eggs, loaf sugar, 
and champagne. He invited us all to go and 
spend to-morrow with him. My husband decided 
to go, with Una. 

13th. Snowstorm. My husband has gone to 
Pittsfield. As soon as he and Una drove off in 
the wagon, dear little Julian for the first time 
thought of himself, and burst into a heart-break¬ 
ing cry. To comfort him, I told him I would 
read him “ The Bear and the Skrattel,” and “ Sam, 
the Cockerel,” which made him laugh through 
floods of tears. Then he relapsed, and said he 
would do nothing without Una. So I told him 
he should have the Swiss cottage, the pearls, and 
the velvet furniture. This was enchantment. 

MS 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

During his dinner he discoursed all the time about 
Giant Despair and Christian. He improvised, 
while playing ball, a sad tragedy, and among 
other things said, “I wept, and pitied myself.” 
Now he has stopped playing, for the lambs have 
come to graze before the windows, and he is talk¬ 
ing incessantly about having one for his own pet 
lamb. It is now snowing thickly. I cannot see 
the Lake ; no farther than the fringe of trees 
upon the banks. The lambs look anything but 
snow-white , half covered with snowflakes. Ju¬ 
lian ran for his slate, and drew one pretty well. 
Then Midnight came [dog, man, or cat is not 
known] and frightened them away, and Julian re¬ 
minded me of my promise to read “The Bear.” 
This I did, squeaking as sharply as occasion re¬ 
quired. “ I feel very lonely without papa or Una,” 
said Julian. After dinner he asked me to read 
to him the story of Sir William Phips. When I 
put him to bed, he said, as he jumped into it, 
that the angels were lying down beside him. 

14th. What a superb day ! But Julian and 
I are worn out with waiting. Prince Rose-Red 
talked without one second’s intermission the 
whole time I was dressing him ; and I allowed 
it, as papa and Una were not here to be disturbed 
by the clishmaclaver. At breakfast we were dis¬ 
mal. Julian mourned for his father most touch¬ 
ingly, and more than for Una. “ Oh, dear,” said 
he, “ I feel as if I were alone on a great mountain, 
without papa! ” I have clipped off the ends of 
his long curls; and all of these he has tenderly 
146 


LENOX 


shut up in a domino-box, to distribute among 
his friends hereafter. After his dinner, I dressed 
him to go out. He hopes to meet his father, and 
get into the wagon. But before he went out I 
took down the “ Twice-Told Tales” from the 
shelf, to look at the engraving. We enjoyed it 
very much. Blessed be Phillebrown, blessed be 
Ticknor, Reed & Fields, blessed be Thompson, 
C. G. Julian was struck with its life. “ It is not 
a drawn papa,” said he, “for it smiles at me, 
though he does not speak. It is a real papa! ” 
Now that he has gone out, I have put it up be¬ 
fore me, so that I can see it every time I lift my 
eyes. Was ever one so loved ? 

George W. Curtis sends a letter, once more: — 
Boston, March 19, 1851. 

My dear Mr. Hawthorne, — You will see 
by the book which I send you with this note 
[“Nile Notes of a Howadji”] that I break our 
long silence by a speech of some length; and 
I should not have waited until now to tell you 
that I had returned, had I not wished to tell you 
at the same time something of the delights that 
kept me so long away. For, like a young lover, 
I think, of course, that no one had ever so good a 
time as I. In this book I have aimed to convey 
the character of the satisfaction that I experi¬ 
enced, and that, I am sure, every man like me 
must needs experience upon the Nile. 

But you will believe — if you still believe in 
i47 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

me — that I have seized this small paper, only 
that I may not send you preserved in cold ink 
those fruits of travel that I hope one day to shake 
upon you, warm from the tongue. 

I am passing a brace of days only in Boston, 
having as yet seen no one, and in despair and 
disgust at the storm. You, I think of in Lenox 
— which is a summer spot only to my memory; 
alas! with nothing summery now, I fancy, but 
your rage at the equinoctial. Does Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne yet remember that she sent me a golden 
key to the studio of Crawford, in Rome ? I have 
neither forgotten that, nor any smallest token of 
her frequent courtesy in the Concord days. Such 
be our days forever! Yours truly, 

George W. Curtis. 

Among many messages from friends there was 
a welcome note from Cambridge : — 

My dear Hawthorne, — Mr. Duyckinck and 
his friend Mr. Beekman, of New York, having 
read your “Twice-Told Tales” with great won¬ 
derment and delight, “desire you of more ac¬ 
quaintance.” I therefore am happy to make you 
known to each other. Yours truly, 

Longfellow. 

June 30. 

Mr. G. P. R. James, the novelist, lived some¬ 
what near, but writes to Hawthorne between 
calls: — 


148 


LENOX 


Stockbridge, Mass., 4th July, 1851. 

My dear Mr. Hawthorne, — The night be¬ 
fore last I received the two portentous bundles 
[essays by Miss Sedgwick’s scholars]. Last 
night — though to give up reading “ The House 
of the Seven Gables ” for the purpose of reading 
a packet of seventy gabbles was like tearing the 
flesh from my bones — I set to, and got through 
ten of the compositions — six of the minors and 
four of the majors. ... Of what I have read, I 
am inclined to say, “ the devil a barrel a better 
herring.” All contain great inaccuracies of style 
and grammar; and few display a trace of original 
thought. As far as I have gone, it is all desk- 
fancy and “ book laming ” — parrotism, in short. 
. . . I was exceedingly sorry to find, from my 
son and daughter, that you could not bring your 
young people to our haymaking on Wednesday. 
But they consoled me with a promise, in your 
name, of bringing them another day to spend the 
whole of it with us. I hold you to it; and if 
you fail, or fail of prompt performance, I shall 
look upon you as faithless and mansworn to 

Yours ever, G. P. R. James. 

Mrs. Hawthorne writes on : — 

My dearest Lizzie, — What a sumptuous 
present, or budget of presents, you are making 
me! I am affronted, if they come in the way 
of return for the pitiful hospitality you received. 
You not only had no bed to sleep on, and no room 

149 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


to sleep in, but nothing to eat, besides sewing all 
the time, and washing your own clothes ! I was 
very unhappy about it all, but thought I would 
not add to the trouble by complaining, as I did 
not see how I could remedy the matter. I never 
intend to have a guest again for so long as father 
stayed, on Mr. Hawthorne’s account. It fairly 
destroys both his artistic and his domestic life. 
He has no other life — never visiting, and having 
nothing to do with the public. I do not know as 
any one but myself can estimate the cost to him 
of having a stranger in our courts; especially in 
these narrow ones. A week or so does very well; 
but months will not do at all. ... You know that 
he has but just stepped over the threshold of a 
hermitage. He is but just not a hermit still. 

Hawthorne responds to the substantial friend¬ 
ship of a lifelong comrade : — 


Lenox, July 24, 1851. 

Dear Pike, — I should have written to you 
long since, acknowledging the receipt of your gin, 
and in answer to your letter, but I have been very 
busy with my pen. As to the gin, I cannot speak 
of its quality, for the bottle has not yet been 
opened, and will probably remain corked until 
cold weather, when I mean to take an occasional 
sip. I really thank you for it, however; nor could 
I help shedding a few quiet tears over that which 
was so uselessly spilt by the expressman. 

The most important news I have to tell you (if 
150 


LENOX 


you have not already heard it) is, that we have 
another daughter, now about two months old. She 
is a very bright and healthy child, and neither 
more nor less handsome than babies generally are. 
I think I feel more interest in her than I did in 
the other children at the same age, from the con¬ 
sideration that she is to be the daughter of my 
age — the comfort (at least, so it is to be hoped) 
of my declining years — the last child whom I 
expect or intend to have. What a sad account 
you give of your solitude, in your letter! I am 
not likely ever to have the feeling of loneliness 
which you express; and I most heartily wish that 
you would take measures to remedy it in your 
own case, by marrying Miss Brookhouse or some¬ 
body else as soon as possible. If I were at all in 
the habit of shedding tears, I should have felt 
inclined to do so at your description of your pre¬ 
sent situation ; without family, and estranged from 
your former friends. 

Whenever you feel it quite intolerable (and I 
can hardly help wishing that it may become so 
soon), do come to me. By the way, if I continue 
to prosper as heretofore in the literary line, I 
shall soon be in a condition to buy a place; and if 
you should hear of one, say, worth from $ 1500 to 
$2000, I wish you would keep your eye on it for 
me. I should wish it to be on the seacoast, or at 
all events with easy access to the sea. Very little 
land would suit my purpose, but I want a good 
house, with space enough inside, and which will 
not need any considerable repairs. I find that I 
151 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

do not feel at home among these hills, and should 
not like to consider myself permanently settled 
here. I do not get acclimated to the peculiar 
state of the atmosphere, and, except in mid-winter, 
I am continually catching cold, and am none so 
vigorous as I used to be on the seacoast. The 
same is the case with my wife; and though the 
children seem perfectly well, yet I rather think 
they would flourish better near the sea. Say 
nothing about my wishes, but if you see a place 
likely to suit me, let me know. I shall be in 
Salem probably as soon as October, and possibly 
you will have something in view by that time. 

Why did you not express your opinion of The 
House of the Seven Gables, which I sent you ? 
I suppose you were afraid of hurting my feelings 
by disapproval; but you need not have been. I 
should receive friendly censure with just as much 
equanimity as if it were praise ; though certainly 
I had rather you would like the book than not. 
At any rate, it has sold finely, and seems to have 
pleased a good many people better than the 
others, and I must confess that I myself am 
among the number. It is more characteristic of 
the author, and a more natural book for me to 
write, than The Scarlet Letter was. When I 
write another romance, I shall take the Community 
for a subject, and shall give some of my expe¬ 
riences and observations at Brook Farm. Since 
the publication of the Seven Gables I have writ¬ 
ten a book for children, which is to be put to 
press immediately. 


152 


LENOX 


My wife, with the baby and Una, is going 
southward in two or three weeks to see her 
mother, who, I think, will not survive another 
winter. I shall remain here with Julian. If you 
can be spared from that miserable Custom House, 
I wish you would pay me a visit, although my 
wife would hardly forgive you for coming while 
she was away. But I do long to see you, and to 
talk about a thousand things relating to this world 
and the next. I am very glad of your testimony 
in favor of spiritual intercourse. I have heard and 
read much on the subject, and it appears to me 
to be the strangest and most bewildering affair I 
ever heard of. I should be very glad to believe 
that these rappers are, in any one instance, the 
spirits of the persons whom they profess them¬ 
selves to be; but though I have talked with those 
who have had the freest communication, there has 
always been something that makes me doubt. So 
you must allow me to withhold my full and entire 
belief, until I have heard some of the details of 
your own spiritual intercourse. 

On receiving your letter, I wrote to Longfellow, 
requesting him to forward you any books that 
might facilitate your progress, in the Swedish 
language. He has not told me whether or no he 
did so. I asked him to send them to the Mansion 
House in Salem. I wish you had rather under¬ 
taken Latin, or French, or German, or indeed, 
almost any other language, in which there would 
have been a more extensive and attainable litera¬ 
ture than in the Swedish. But if it turns out to 
i53 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

be a pleasure and improvement to yourself, the 
end is attained. You will never, I fear (you see 
that I take a friend’s privilege to speak plainly), 
make the impression on the world that, in years 
gone by, I used to hope you would. It will not 
be your fault, however, but the fault of circum¬ 
stances. Your flower was not destined to bloom 
in this world. I hope to see its glory in the 
next. 

I had much more to say, but it has escaped my 
memory just now, and it is of no use trying to say 
any real thing in a letter. Hoping to see you 
sooner or later, 

Your friend ever, 

Nathaniel Hawthorne. 

Excuse this illegible scrawl; but I have con¬ 
tracted such a habit of scrawling that I cannot 
possibly help it. 

Mr. Pike was one of the half-earthy intelli¬ 
gences which are capable of bloom, like a gran¬ 
ite-strewn hill, revealing upon a closer glance 
unexpected imagination. I once saw him coming 
through a little pine grove near The Wayside with 
my father; it was after our return from England. 
He was so short, sturdy, phlegmatic of exterior, 
and plebeian, that I was astonished at my father’s 
pleasure in his company, until I noticed a certain 
gentleness in his manner of stepping, and heard 
the modulations of his voice, and caught the fra¬ 
grance of his humility. One or two letters of his 
already printed are delightfully straightforward, 
i54 


LENOX 


— even more so in their unabridged state than 
as they now stand ; showing unconsciousness of 
the methods of a devious subtlety of penetration, 
though sensitiveness to its influence, as an ox 
slowly turns his great eye about at the sound of a 
bee, but never catches a glimpse of him ; showing 
a restful stupidity that nevertheless had enough 
intellectual fire to take a kind, eager delight in 
telling, as it were, the sculptor that his clay was 
gray and his marble white. To a mind whose 
subtlety could never bewilder itself by no matter 
what intricacies of sudden turning, the solid stare 
before his nose of Mr. Pike must have been 
agreeable, since it was joined to a capital vision of 
whatever actually crossed that patient gaze, and 
to a tenderness which sprang like purest refresh¬ 
ment from a hard promise. Anything that can 
restfully attract a thinker is, of course, at a pre¬ 
mium with him. Mr. Pike might be as plebeian 
as he pleased, the more the better, since he was 
one of the people who could apprehend truth, talk 
of love like a troubadour for sincere belief in it, 
and say a good thing when one least expected 
him to do so, which is the nick of time for bril¬ 
liancy. 

Herman Melville writes, the date being recorded 
by my father, “Received July 24, 1851,” one of 
the frolicsome letters which it requires second- 
sight to decipher, the handwriting being, appar¬ 
ently, “ writ in water : ” — 


i55 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


Tuesday afternoon. 

My dear Hawthorne, — This is not a letter, 
or even a note, but only a passing word said to 
you over your garden gate. I thank you for your 
easy-flowing long letter (received yesterday), 
which flowed through me, and refreshed all my 
meadows, as the Housatonic — opposite me — 
does in reality. I am now busy with various 
things, not incessantly though; but enough to 
require my frequent tinkerings; and this is the 
height of the haying season, and my nag is drag¬ 
ging home his winter’s dinners all the time. And 
so, one way and another, I am not a disengaged 
man, but shall be very soon. Meantime, the ear¬ 
liest good chance I get, I shall roll down to you, 
my good fellow, seeing we — that is, you and I — 
must hit upon some little bit of vagabondism be¬ 
fore autumn comes. Graylock — we must go and 
vagabondize there. But ere we start, we must 
dig a deep hole, and bury all Blue Devils, there to 
abide till the Last Day. . . . Good-by. 

His X mark. 


And again: — 


Pittsfield, Monday afternoon. 

My dear Hawthorne, — People think that if 
a man has undergone any hardship, he should have 
a reward; but for my part, if I have done the 
hardest possible day’s work, and then come to sit 
down in a corner and eat my supper comfortably 
— why, then I don’t think I deserve any reward 
156 


LENOX 


for my hard day’s work — for am I not now at 
peace ? Is not my supper good ? My peace and 
my supper are my reward, my dear Hawthorne. 
So your joy-giving and exultation-breeding letter 
is not my reward for my ditcher’s work with that 
book, but is the good goddess’s bonus over and 
above what was stipulated for — for not one man 
in five cycles, who is wise, will expect appreciative 
recognition from his fellows, or any one of them. 
Appreciation ! Recognition ! Is love appreciated ? 
Why, ever since Adam, who has got to the mean¬ 
ing of his great allegory — the world ? Then we 
pygmies must be content to have our paper alle¬ 
gories but ill comprehended. I say your apprecia¬ 
tion is my glorious gratuity. In my proud, humble 
way, — a shepherd-king, — I was lord of a little 
vale in the solitary Crimea; but you have now 
given me the crown of India. But on trying it on 
my head, I found it fell down on my ears, notwith¬ 
standing their asinine length — for it’s only such 
ears that sustain such crowns. 

Your letter was handed me last night on the 
road going to Mr. Morewood’s, and I read it there. 
Had I been at home, I would have sat down at 
once and answered it. In me divine magnanim¬ 
ities are spontaneous and instantaneous — catch 
them while you can. The world goes round, and 
the other side comes up. So now I can’t write 
what I felt. But I felt pantheistic then — your 
heart beat in my ribs and mine in yours, and both 
in God’s. A sense of unspeakable security is in 
me this moment, on account of your having under- 
i57 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

stood the book. I have written a wicked book, 
and feel spotless as the lamb. Ineffable socialities 
are in me. I would sit down and dine with you 
and all the gods in old Rome’s Pantheon. It 
is a strange feeling — no hopefulness is in it, no 
despair. Content — that is it; and irresponsibil¬ 
ity ; but without licentious inclination. I speak 
now of my profoundest sense of being, not of an 
incidental feeling. 

Whence come you, Hawthorne ? By what right 
do you drink from my flagon of life ? And when 
I put it to my lips — lo, they are yours and not 
mine. I feel that the Godhead is broken up like 
the bread at the Supper, and that we are the 
pieces. Hence this infinite fraternity of feeling. 
Now, sympathizing with the paper, my angel turns 
over another page. You did not care a penny for 
the book. But, now and then as you read, you 
understood the pervading thought that impelled 
the book — and that you praised. Was it not so ? 
You were archangel enough to despise the im¬ 
perfect body, and embrace the soul. Once you 
hugged the ugly Socrates because you saw the 
flame in the mouth, and heard the rushing of 
the demon,—the familiar,—and recognized the 
sound; for you have heard it in your own soli¬ 
tudes. 

My dear Hawthorne, the atmospheric skepti¬ 
cisms steal into me now, and make me doubtful 
of my sanity in writing you thus. But, believe 
me, I am not mad, most noble Festus ! But truth 
is ever incoherent, and when the big hearts strike 
u8 


LENOX 


together, the concussion is a little stunning. Fare¬ 
well. Don’t write a word about the book. That 
would be robbing me of my miserly delight. I 
am heartily sorry I ever wrote anything about you 
— it was paltry. Lord, when shall we be done 
growing ? As long as we have anything more to 
do, we have done nothing. So, now, let us add 
Moby Dick to our blessing, and step from that. 
Leviathan is not the biggest fish; — I have heard 
of Krakens. 

This is a long letter, but you are not at all 
bound to answer it. Possibly, if you do answer it, 
and direct it to Herman Melville, you will missend 
it — for the very fingers that now guide this pen 
are not precisely the same that just took it up 
and put it on this paper. Lord, when shall we be 
done changing ? Ah ! it’s a long stage, and no 
inn in sight, and night coming, and the body cold. 
But with you for a passenger, I am content and 
can be happy. I shall leave the world, I feel, 
with more satisfaction for having come to know 
you. Knowing you persuades me more than the 
Bible of our immortality. 

What a pity, that, for your plain, bluff letter, 
you should get such gibberish ! Mention me to 
Mrs. Hawthorne and to the children, and so, 
good-by to you, with my blessing. 

Herman. 

P. S. I can’t stop yet. If the world was entirely 
made up of Magians, I ’ll tell you what I should 
do. I should have a paper-mill established at one 
end of the house, and so have an endless riband 
*59 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

of foolscap rolling in upon my desk ; and upon 
that endless riband I should write a thousand — a 
million — billion thoughts, all under the form of 
a letter to you. The divine magnet is on you, and 
my magnet responds. Which is the biggest ? A 
foolish question — they are One . H. 

P. P. S. Don’t think that by writing me a let¬ 
ter, you shall always be bored with an immediate 
reply to it — and so keep both of us delving over 
a writing-desk eternally. No such thing! I 
sha’n’t always answer your letters, and you may 
do just as you please. 

Hawthorne is left alone fci a few days, while 
his wife visits her mother, which causes the fol¬ 
lowing notes to be written : — 


Lenox, August 8, 1851. 

Ownest Ph(ebe, — I wrote thee a note yester¬ 
day, and sent it to the village by Cornelius; but 
as he may have neglected to put it in, I write 
again. If thou wilt start from West Newton on 
Thursday next, I will meet thee at Pittsfield, 
which will answer the same purpose as if I came 
all the way. . . . 

Julian is very well, and keeps himself happy 
from morning till night. I hope Una does the 
same. Give my love to her. . . . 

Thine, N. H. 

160 


LENOX 


August 9, Saturday. 

I received yesterday thy note, in which thou 
speakest of deferring thy return some days longer. 
Stay by all means as long as may be needful. 
Julian gets along perfectly well; and I am eager 
for thy coming only because it is unpleasant to 
remain torn asunder. Thou wilt write to tell me 
finally what day thou decidest upon; but unless 
I hear further, I shall go to Pittsfield on Satur¬ 
day , a week from to-day. But if thou seest rea¬ 
son for staying longer do so, that nothing may be 
left at loose ends. 

Julian and I had a fine ride yesterday with Her¬ 
man Melville and two other gentlemen. 

Mrs. Peters is perfectly angelic. 

Thinest, N. H. 

Mrs. Peters, a negress of the dignified type, 
was the general house-servant, an aged, forbid¬ 
ding, harmlessly morose soul, often recalled by 
my mother in her references to Lenox, when talk¬ 
ing, as she did most easily and fascinatingly, to 
us children of the past. The picturing of Mrs. 
Peters always impressed me very much, and she 
no doubt stood for a suggestion of Aunt Keziah 
in “Septimius Felton.” She was an invaluable 
tyrant, an unloaded weapon, a creature who 
seemed to say, " Forget my qualities if you dare 
— there is one of them which is fatal! ” As my 
parents possessed the capacity to pay respect 
where it could be earned, the qualities of Mrs. 

161 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Peters were respected, and she found herself in a 
sort of heaven of courteous tolerance. 

Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her mother : — 

On Sunday Mr. Samuel G. Ward came to see 
us. He gave me an excellent drawing of High- 
wood Porch, for “ The Wonder-Book,” which he 
said he had asked Burrill Curtis to draw. We 
have sent it to Mr. Fields. On Monday Mr. Cur¬ 
tis called. He is taking sketches all about, and is 
going back to Europe this autumn. Just now, 
Dr. Holmes and Mr. Upham’s son Charles drove 
up. They came in, a few moments. First came 
Dr. Holmes, to peep at the Lake through the bou¬ 
doir window, — for he was afraid to leave the 
horse, even tied; then he went out for Charles 
to come in; and Mr. Hawthorne insisted upon 
holding the horse, and having them both come in. 
When Dr. Holmes went back, he laughed to see 
Mr. Hawthorne at his horse's head, and exclaimed, 
" Is there another man in all America who ever 
had so great an honor, as to have the author of 
‘ The Scarlet Letter ’ hold his horse ? ” My love 
to your lovely household. Your most 

Affectionate child, Sophia. 

162 


CHAPTER VII 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

The following letters were evoked by one of 
those entanglements concerning the petty mat¬ 
ters of existence which will sometimes occur in 
the most enchanting web and woof of good feel¬ 
ing and high thought. A luxuriant fruit garden, 
attached to the “red house,” seems to have sud¬ 
denly cast a spell over its original mistress, and 
around this humorous tragedy my father throws 
some gleams of mirth and sense, as follows : — 

September 5. 

Dear Mrs. Tapp an, — As questions of dis¬ 
puted boundary are very ticklish ones, whether 
between nations or individuals, I think it best to 
take the diplomatic correspondence, on our part, 
into my own hands ; and I do it the more readily 
as I am quite an idle man nowadays, and shall 
find it rather agreeable than otherwise; whereas 
Sophia is exceedingly busy, and moreover is averse 
to any kind of a dispute. You will be kind 
enough to give me credit for writing in a spirit 
of undisturbed good humor and friendly courtesy ; 
and this being the case, I shall feel myself safe in 
writing with likewise the most perfect frankness. 

In the first place permit me to notice the ques- 
163 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

tion which you put to Sophia, whether she would 
not prefer to receive kindness rather than assume 
rights. I do not know what would be her reply; 
but, for myself, in view of the infirmities of human 
nature in general and my especial infirmities, and 
how few people are fit even to receive kindnesses, 
and how far fewer are worthy to do them, I infi¬ 
nitely prefer a small right to a great favor. It was 
this feeling that made me see the necessity of a 
sum stipulated in the way of rent, between Mr. 
Tappan and myself. The little difficulty, in which 
we now find ourselves, merely serves to confirm 
me in my principle, and will instruct me in all 
future cases, to have my rights more sharply 
defined than they are now. 

Undoubtedly, by consenting to receive money 
from me, Mr. Tappan did invest me with certain 
rights, and among the most evident of them, I 
consider the property in the fruit. What is a gar¬ 
den without its currant bushes and fruit trees ? 
Last year, no question of this nature was raised: 
our right seemed to be tacitly conceded, and if 
you claimed or exercised any manorial privileges, 
it never came to my knowledge. This season 
when Mr. Tappan inquired what part of the gar¬ 
den I wanted to cultivate, I supposed that he 
wished to know in order that he might send Cor¬ 
nelius to plough it — as he very kindly did. It 
never came into my mind that I should lose the 
most valuable part of the demesne by failing to 
plant it. If the fruit trees have suffered by my 
neglect, this was reasonable ground for remon- 
164 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

strance on Mr. Tappan’s part, but would hardly 
justify him in so summary a measure as that of 
taking the property out of my hands, at once, and 
without a word of explanation, or even informing 
me of the fact. Nor do I conceive that he had 
any purpose of doing so. 

At all events, Sophia and I supposed ourselves 
to be in full possession of that part of the gar¬ 
den, and in having a right of property over its 
products, more extensive than that of Adam and 
Eve in Eden, inasmuch as it excluded not a single 
tree. Such being our view of the matter, you 
meet Mary Beekman, carrying a basket of fruit. 
You stop her, look at the contents of the basket, 
and inquire as to its destination. You ask her 
(at least so she averred to Mrs. Peters, although 
she has since qualified her statement) whether it 
had been given away or sold. You conduct this 
examination in such a mode, as to make it evident 
to our servant-girl that you consider Sophia and 
Mrs. Peters as combining in a depredation on 
your property. 

You follow this up with a note of remonstrance 
to Sophia, in which you take her to task not 
merely for giving away some of the fruit, but for 
presuming to choose her own time to gather it 
for our own use. Now let us suppose the per¬ 
fectly parallel case, that Mrs. Ward should take 
upon herself to pursue the same course in regard 
to the fruit of High wood. Would Mrs. Tappan 
have responded to Mrs. Ward by a gentler asser¬ 
tion of right than Sophia’s to yourself ? I think 
165 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

not. I do not see how you could. And if you 
did so, it would be purely out of your own abun¬ 
dant grace and good nature, and would by no 
means be due to any propriety in the supposed 
behavior of Mrs. Ward. 

Finally in your note of last evening, you give 
us very clearly to understand that you look upon 
us as having no rights here whatever. Allow me 
to say that this is precisely the crisis which I 
contemplated when I felt it essential to be under¬ 
stood that I had bought my rights, even from 
persons so generously disposed as yourself and 
Mr. Tappan. The right of purchase is the only 
safe one. This is a world of bargain and sale; 
and no absurdity is more certain to be exposed 
than the attempt to make it anything else. 

As regards the apples of discord (meaning 
thereby the plums, pears, peaches, and whatever 
besides) we sincerely hope you will take as many 
of them as you please, and on such grounds as 
may cause them to taste most agreeably. If you 
choose to make a raid, and to seize the fruit with 
the strong hand, so far from offering any armed 
resistance, we shall not so much as remonstrate. 
But would it not be wiser to drop the question of 
right, and receive it as a free-will offering from 
us? We have not shrunk from the word “gift,” 
although we happen to be so much the poorer of 
two parties, that it is rather a suspicious word 
from you to us. Or, if this do not suit you, you 
can take the fruit in humble requital of some 
of the many favors bestowed in times past and 
166 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

which we may perhaps remember more faithfully 
than you do. 

And then the recollection of this slight acidity 
of sentiment, between friends of some years’ 
standing, may impart a pleasant and spirited 
flavor to the preserves and jams, when they come 
upon your table. At any rate, take what you 
want and that speedily, or there will be little else 
than a parcel of rotten plums to dispute about. 

With kind regards to Mr. Tappan, 

Very truly yours, N. H. 

Mrs. Hawthorne writes to her sister, Miss E. P. 
Peabody: — 

I send you Mr. Tappan’s answer, so noble and 
beautiful. Mr. Hawthorne wrote him a beautiful 
note in reply, in which he said: “ My dear sir, 
I trust you will not put more weight than it de¬ 
serves upon a letter which I wrote rather to re¬ 
lieve Sophia of what might have disturbed her, 
than because I look upon the affair in a serious 
light. Your own letter is of a character to make 
one ashamed of any narrower or ignobler senti¬ 
ment than those of universal beneficence and good 
will j and I freely confess that the world will not 
deserve to be called a world of bargain and sale 
so long as it shall include men like yourself. 
With much regard truly yours, N. H.” 

Two letters to Mrs. Peabody describe the 
Lenox scene: — 


167 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

September 7, Sunday. 

My dearest Mother, — It is heaven’s day, 
to-day, and the Lord’s day, and now baby sleeps 
and Una is at High wood and Julian at play, and 
I will begin at least to answer your sweet, patient, 
wise, and tender letters. Yesterday and to-day 
have been tropical in heat and richness and ex¬ 
pansiveness, and I feel as if it is on such days 
only that we really live and know how good is 
God. I wish I knew that you enjoy such warmth 
and are not made languid by it. You will per¬ 
haps remember that I am always strongest at 98° 
Fahrenheit. I delight to think that you also can 
look forth as I do now upon a broad valley and a 
fine amphitheatre of hills, and are about to watch 
the stately ceremony of sunset from your piazza. 
But you have not this lovely Lake, nor I suppose 
the delicate purple mist which folds these slum¬ 
bering mountains in airy veils. 

Mr. Hawthorne has been lying down in the 
sunshine, slightly fleckered with the shadows of a 
tree, and Una and Julian have been making him 
look like the mighty Pan by covering his chin and 
breast with long grass-blades, that looked like a 
verdant and venerable beard. I walked down to 
them a moment, leaving baby asleep, and while 
there Una exclaimed, “Oh, how I wish Georgie 
was here ! ” [George C. Mann, her cousin.] Thus 
the dear little boy harmonizes with the large and 
dreamy landscape, so that his presence would 
only help the beauty of this peerless day. I 
never heard Una wish for any one before, when 
168 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

enjoying Elemental life, and her father. Baby 
Rose has had a carriage for a week or more, and 
we took her one day down to the Lake. I wish 
you could have seen her in the wood, when I held 
her in my arms. She smiled and smiled and 
smiled, at the trees and the Lake and the wood¬ 
land sounds, till she transported mamma almost 
out of the proprieties. “To kiss her all to pieces,” 
“to hug her to death,” “to devour her,” were 
processes to which she rendered herself fearfully 
liable. How wonderful is this love for which 
there is no mortal expression, but which we can 
only shadow forth by death and destruction. Ju¬ 
lian has begun to speak to the baby now. He 
exclaims, “ Oh, you darling ! ” and holds her on his 
lap, with such a look of bountiful and boundless 
tenderness and care as would charm you to see. 
I should as soon expect an angel from the sky to 
descend to a rough scuffle with a desperado as 
for Julian to disturb or annoy the little Rosebud. 
Sometimes we go down to the wood near, and 
baby sleeps in the carriage to the music of pine- 
tree murmurs and cricket-chirpings, and once in 
a while of birds, while Una and Julian build piles 
of tiny sticks for the fairies’ winter fuel, and papa 
and mamma sit and muse in the breathless noon. 
But it is seldom warm enough. These last two 
days are warm enough, and my soul seems to 
“expand and grow like corn and melons,” and I 
remember all beautiful behavior and noble deeds 
and grand thoughts and high endeavors ; and the 
whole vast Universe seems to blend in one sin- 
169 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

gle, unbroken recognition of the “ Higher Law.” 
Can there be wrong, hate, fraud, injustice, cruelty, 
war, in such a lovely, fair world as this before my 
eyes ? Cannot cities be abolished, so that men 
may realize the beauty of love and peace by con¬ 
templating the broad and genial spaces where 
there is no strife? In the country they would 
see that sunbeams do not wrangle, that forests 
of trees agree together, that no flower disturbs 
another flower. I have written and the sun has 
set; and the moon has risen, and reveals the fine 
sculpture of nature. Una and Julian and Baby 
Rose are all in profound repose. Not a sound 
can be heard but my pen-strokes, and the ever 
welcome voice of the cricket, which seems ex¬ 
pressly created to announce silence and peace. . . . 
It is very singular how much more we are in 
the centre of society in Lenox than we were in 
Salem, and all literary persons seem settling 
around us. But when they get established here 
I dare say we shall take flight. . . . Our present 
picture is Julian, lying on an ottoman in the bou- 
^doir, looking at drawings of Grecian gems; and 
just now he is filled with indignation at the man 
who sent Hercules the poisoned shirt, because 
he is contemplating that superb head of the “ Suf¬ 
fering Hercules.” He says he hopes that man 
is dead; and I assure him that he is dead, dead, 
dead, and can send no more poisoned shirts to 
anybody. It happened to be a woman, however, 
sad to tell, but I thought I would not reveal to 
him the terrible story of Dejanira and the wicked 
170 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

Nessus. Una is whittling, but at this instant runs 
off to help Mary Beekman to do something. Mr. 
Hawthorne has retired to his Study. Baby sleeps. 
Good-by, dear mother. Love to your household. 

Your loving child, Sophia. 

Dearest Mother, — To-day I took Julian for 
a walk. He waited to speak to his beloved Mr. 
Tappan, who was in his field. Julian picked up 
one sheaf after another, and carried them to him, 
calling, “Mr. Tappan! Mr. Tappan! Here are 
your oats ! ” Mr. Tappan turned at last, smiling, 
and thanked him for his help. The afternoon was 
so beautiful that every incident seemed like a 
perfect jewel on a golden crown. The load of 
yellow sheaves, the rainbow child, the Castilian 
with his curls and dark smiling eyes [Mr. Tappan] 
— every object was a picture which Murillo could 
not paint. I waited for Julian till he ran to me; 
and when we came into our yard, there was lady 
baby in her carriage, in a little azure robe, look¬ 
ing like a pale star on a blue sky. We came into 
the dining-room, and out of the window there 
was this grand and also exquisite picture — lake, 
meadow, mountains ; forever new, forever chang¬ 
ing ; now so rich with this peculiar autumn 
sunshine, like which my husband says there is 
nothing in the world. The children enjoy, very 
much, this landscape, while they eat their sup¬ 
per. Una ate hers, and went upstairs to see grand¬ 
mamma ; and Julian sat on my lap, very tired 
with play, eating a cold buckwheat cake, and 
171 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

gazing out. “ Mamma! Mountain ! Lake / ” he 
kept ejaculating. Wise child! What could be 
added, in the way of adjective, that would en¬ 
hance? “Thou eye among the blind!” thought 
his mother. At last he was so weary with sport 
that he slipped down upon the floor, and lay upon 
his back, till he finished eating his buckwheat 
cake. Then I put him to bed. He clasped his 
blessed little arms so tightly around my neck, 
with such an energetic kiss, that we both nearly 
lost breath. One merry gleam from his eyes 
was succeeded by a cloud of sleepiness, and he 
was soon with the angels. For he says the angels 
take him, when he goes to sleep, and bring him 
back in the morning. Then I began this letter. 
Dear little harp-souled Una — whose love for her 
father grows more profound every day, as her 
comprehending intellect and heart perceive more 
and more fully what he is — was made quite 
unhappy because he did not go at the same time 
with her to the Lake. His absence darkened all 
the sunshine to her; and when I asked her why 
she could not enjoy the walk as Julian did, she 
replied, “ Ah, he does not love papa as / do! ” 
But when we arrived, there sat papa on a rock, 
and her face and figure were transfigured from a 
Niobe’s to an Allegra’s instantly. After I put 
Julian to bed, I went out to the barn to see about 
the chickens, and she wished to go. There sat 
papa on the hay, and like a needle to a magnet she 
was drawn, and begged to see papa a little longer, 
and stay with him. Now she has come, weary 
172 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

enough ; and after steeping her spirit in this rose 
and gold of twilight, she has gone to bed. With 
such a father, and such a scene before her eyes, 
and with eyes to see , what may we not hope of 
her? I heard her and Julian talking together 
about their father’s smile, the other day. They 
had been speaking of some other person’s smile 
— Mr. Tappan’s, I believe; and presently Una 
said, “ But you know, Julian, that there is no 
smile like papa’s! ” “ Oh no,” replied Julian. 

" Not like papas / ” Una has such an intuitive 
perception of spheres, that I do not wonder at 
her feeling about her father. She can as yet 
hardly tell why she is so powerfully attracted; 
but her mother can sympathize, — and knows 
very well. 

Do not wait an hour to procure the two last 
numbers of “ The Literary World,” and read a 
new criticism on Mr. Hawthorne. At last some 
one speaks the right word of him. I have not 
before heard it. I have been wearied and an¬ 
noyed hitherto with hearing him compared to 
Washington Irving and other American writers, 
and put, generally, second. At last some one 
dares to say what in my secret mind I have 
often thought — that he is only to be mentioned 
with the Swan of Avon; the great heart and the 
grand intellect combined. I know you will enjoy 
the words of this ardent Virginian as I do. But 
it is funny to see how he does not know how this 
heart and this intellect are enshrined. 

i73 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


It was decided to return to the neighborhood of 
Boston, and for a short time the family remained 
in West Newton : — 

November 28. 

My dear Elizabeth, — Here we are, in pos¬ 
session of Mary Mann’s house and effects. I 
took baby on a sledge to see her grandmother 
Peabody on Thanksgiving Day, who was charmed 
with my smiling, fair baby. Una reads her grand¬ 
mother “The Wonder-Book,” very sweetly, when 
she is there. Mother says she could never tire 
of listening to her. 

Your affectionate sister, 

Sophia. 

West Newton, December 25, 1851. 

My dear Louisa [Hawthorne], — This very 
morning I intended to write to you again, to in¬ 
quire why you neither came nor responded to my 
letter, and then I received yours. The children 
watched for you many days, and finally gave you 
up. They will be delighted at your coming. Pray 
come as soon as the second week of January. 
Grace Greenwood spent two or three days, and 
was very pleasant. Mr. Fields writes from Paris 
that Mr. Hawthorne’s books are printed there as 
much as in England ; that his fame is great there 
[in England], and that Browning says he is the 
finest genius that has appeared in English litera¬ 
ture for many years. 

Your affectionate sister, 


i74 


Sophia. 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

P. S. [By Hawthorne.] I have published a new 
collection of tales; but you shall not have a copy 
till you come for it. N. H. 

P. S. [By Mrs. Hawthorne.] This new vol¬ 
ume of “Twice-Told Tales” was published on 
Thursday; and yesterday Mr. Ticknor told Na¬ 
thaniel that he had already sold a thousand 
copies, and had not enough bound to supply the 
demand. 

I give a letter which must have come like the 
song of a wood-thrush to the author, its diction 
being as pure as his own, and yet as strong. 

Brooklyn, July 7, 1852. 

Mr. Hawthorne, —You have expressed the 
kind hope that your writings might interest those 
who claim the same birthplace with yourself. And 
as we need but slight apology for doing what in¬ 
clination suggests, I easily persuade myself that 
it will not be very inappropriate for me to assure 
you that in one heart, at least, pride in your genius 
and gratitude for high enjoyment owed to you 
have added to, and made still more sacred, the 
strong love otherwise felt for the spot where the 
precious gift of life was received. 

In earlier days, with your “ Twice-Told Tales,” 
you played upon my spirit-harp a sweet melody, 
the notes of which have never died away — and 
years after, when my heart was just uplifting 
itself from a deep sorrow, I read the introduction 
to your “Mosses from an Old Manse;” and I re- 
175 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

joiced in your words, as a tree, borne down by the 
wind and storm, rejoices in the first gentle breeze 
or ray of kindly sunshine. 

And now, as after repeated griefs and length¬ 
ened anxieties I think I am come to that period 
of second youth of which you speak, I am permit¬ 
ted to delight in the marvelous beauty and infinite 
delicacy of the narration of “ The Scarlet Letter,” 
and the deep insight into human hearts and minds 
shown in that and the later production. When 
I am tempted to lay down the burden which, of 
one kind or another, mortals must daily bear, and 
forget that “ all human liberty is but a restraint 
self-imposed or consented to,” I shall call to mind 
the touching moment when Hester Prynne sadly 
bound up her flowing tresses, but just released, 
and meekly reassumed the badge of her shame. 
And the little Phoebe, — with her genial sym¬ 
pathies and cheerful tones, — I am not altogether 
without hope that she may aid me to throw off 
some of the morbid tendencies which have ever 
clung to my life (if, perchance, this last moral 
lesson should not destroy the first) ; and these 
sorrows once overcome, existence would not lose 
its corresponding exquisiteness of enjoyment. 

I once lived in the “ Old Hawthorne house; ” 
whether or not you, sir, ever crossed the thresh¬ 
old tradition hath not deigned to inform me. 
Possibly you lived there when a child. And if 
the spirit renew itself once in seven years, as the 
body is said to do, the soul of those younger hours 
may have remained, may have shared with us our 
176 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

more ethereal pleasures, while it frowned on our 
prosaic sports. At least, to some such fancy as 
this, united with the idea of second childhood be¬ 
fore alluded to, must be referred the folly of which 
I have been guilty in addressing a person, who, 
so far as bodily presence is concerned, is to me 
an entire stranger, and to whom I am utterly 
unknown. 

However, sir, humbly begging your pardon for 
this same folly, and entreating that by no acci¬ 
dent may the shades of the Salem witches become 
aware of it, 

I am yours with much esteem, 

Mary A. Porter. 

Upon the envelope Hawthorne has written, 
“Answered, July 18th.” The letter has been pre¬ 
served out of many thrown aside, and Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne has spoken to me of Mary Porter as of a 
real friend. Her delicacy and good sense of ex¬ 
pression contrast well with the over-fanciful, un¬ 
literary quality of the letters of persons who came 
prominently forward as teachers of thought and 
literature, and who no doubt jarred miserably in 
their letters, if not in their conversation, upon the 
refined skill of Hawthorne and his wife. At any 
rate (and though the intercourse with these per¬ 
sons to whom I refer with daring comment was 
received most gratefully and cordially as generally 
the best to be found) Mary Porter was never for¬ 
gotten. 

That my mother and father enjoyed their next 
177 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

home at The Wayside there are immediate letters 
to prove; but if they had not feasted their eyes 
upon a vision of beautiful spaces, it might have 
been less delightful to return to the haunts of 
friends, and a hollow among hills. One grandeur 
of the distance they did not leave behind at Lenox: 
the sunsets to be seen over the meadows between 
The Wayside and the west are spaciously re¬ 
vealed and splendidly rich. Economy had a rest¬ 
less manner of drifting them from place to place. 
Now, however, a home was to be bought (the title- 
deed exists, with Mr. Emerson’s name, and that of 
his wife, attached) ; so that the drifting appeared 
to be at an end. I have reserved until now several 
letters from Concord friends, of an earlier date, in 
order to show to what the Hawthornes looked 
forward in the matter of personalities, when re¬ 
establishing themselves in the distinguished vil- 
lage. 

Mr. Alcott was prominent. In her girlhood, 
Mrs. Hawthorne, hearing from Miss Peabody that 
Mr. James Freeman Clarke had talked with some 
amusement of the school prophet’s ideas, etc., had 
written : — 

“ Mr. Alcott’s sublime simplicity and depth of 
soul would make it impossible for me to make jest 
of him. I cannot imagine why persons should 
not do themselves justice and yet be humble as a 
little child. I do not believe he is in the least self- 
elated. I should think it impossible, in the nature 
of things, for him to arrive at the kind of truths 
he does without entire simplicity of soul. I should 
178 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

think they could not be accessible to one of a con¬ 
trary character.” 

But, nevertheless, Mr. Alcott’s official post 
seems to have been that of visionary plenipoten¬ 
tiary, and one which was a source of most excel¬ 
lent entertainment. He writes in 1836 : — 

August 23. 

Dear Friend, — I have just returned, and find 
your two letters waiting for me. I have read them 
with a double sentiment. The interest which 
you express in my thoughts, and their influence 
over you, I can explain in no other way than as 
arising from similarity of temperament and of 
taste, heightened exceedingly by an instinctive 
tendency — almost preternatural — to reverence 
whatever approaches, either in Spirit or Form, 
your standard of the Ideal. Of minds of this 
class it is impious to ask for tempered expres¬ 
sions. They admire, they marvel, they loVe. 
These are the law of their being, and to refuse 
them the homage of this spiritual oneness with 
the object of their regard, is death ! Their words 
have a significance borrowed from their inmost 
being, and are to be interpreted, not by ordinary 
and popular acceptation, but by the genius of the 
individual that utters them. These have a sig¬ 
nificance of their own. They commune not with 
words, but in spite of them. Ordinary minds mis¬ 
take them. ... You inquire whether portions of 
“Psyche” are to be copied for the press. Mr. 
Emerson has not returned the manuscript. But 
179 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


should I find anything left (after his revisions) 
worthy of attention, I will send it to you. ... I 
send you some numbers of the “ Reformer,” 
among others is the one containing Mr. [Orestes] 
Brownson’s notice of the “ Story Without An 
End.” The allegories which you copied while 
with us are also among them. I read your alle¬ 
gory to Mr. Brownson, who was interested in it, 
and took it for the “ Reformer.” It is a beautiful 
thing, and will be useful. . . . Write me as often 
as you feel inclined. I would write often, were I 
at all given to the practice. My mind flows not 
freely and simply in an epistle. 

Very truly yours, 

A. Bronson Alcott. 

P. S. I have read Carlyle’s “ Schiller.” You 
re-utter my conceptions at the time. You are 
very kind to propose copying the Young Christ 
[for Mr. Alcott’s schoolroom]. The original is a 
borrowed one, and a copy would be useful. 


September 12, 1836. 

Dear Friend, — I was glad to hear from you 
again, for I find my thoughts often dwelling on 
you. The sympathy of spirits is the heart’s un¬ 
dersong, and its warblings are heard in the quiet 
hours of solitude, as if they were from the soft 
voices of celestial choirs. Music reaches us from 
the distance, amid the discordant noises of the 
External. Your remarks on de Maistre have inter¬ 
ested me in the book. Mr. Brownson [afterwards 
famous as a Catholic writer] takes it to-day, and I 
180 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

shall have the interesting passages from him. If 
you have a copy of the “ Valley of Solitude” [one 
of my mother’s original allegories] will you send 
it ? I am under the impression that you pre¬ 
served portions of the “ Valley,” and intended to 
recall and write out the remainder at your leisure. 
Now, don’t attempt this, because Mr. Thacher 
wants it for his “ Boston Book,” but simply tell 
me how much is preserved. . . . Have you seen 
Mr. Emerson’s “ Nature ” ? If you have not, let 
me send you a copy. It is a divine poem on the 
External. It is just to your taste. ... It reminds 
me more of Sampson Reid’s “Growth of the 
Mind ” than any work of modern date. But it is 
unlike any other work. I send you Mr. Brown- 
son’s notice of it. Mr. Brown son gave us two 
splendid discourses lately. Surely this man is a 
terror to pseudo-ministers and would-be philoso¬ 
phers. He is one of the most eloquent preachers. 
He grapples with the highest truths and deepest 
wants of our being, and spreads these before the 
reason as. with a light from heaven. He will write 
to you soon. With great regard, 

A. Bronson Alcott. 

Emerson in the same year responded to a gift 
of some drawings which my mother had made for 
him, in these kind and thoughtful sentences : — 

My dear Miss Sophia, — I beg you to accept 
my thanks for the beautiful drawings you have 
sent me. ... I shall keep them as a treasure to 
181 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

be shown to all my friends who have good or 
capable eyes, that they may rejoice with me in 
the power of the artist. From these fair forms 
I hope to receive many a wise suggestion, many 
a silent reproof. . . . 

Your obliged friend and servant, 

R. Waldo Emerson. 


And later : — 

Concord, January 20, 1838. 

You make me heartily ashamed, my kind friend, 
by the excess of your praise of two such little 
books. I could not possibly recognize anything 
of me in your glowing and pictorial words. So I 
take it for granted that as a true artist you have 
the beauty-making eye, which transfigures the 
landscape and the heads it looks upon, and can 
read poetry out of dull prose. I am not the less 
glad to have been the occasion to you of pleasant 
thoughts, and I delight in the genuine admiration 
you express of that ideal beauty which haunts us 
ever and makes actual life look sometimes like the 
coarsest caricature. I like very well what you say 
of Flaxman, and shall give him the greater heed. 
And indeed who can see the works of a great 
artist without feeling that not so much the pri¬ 
vate as the common wealth is by him indicated. 
I think the true soul — humble, rapt, conspiring 
with all, regards all souls as its lieutenants and 
proxies — itself in another place — and saith of 
the Parthenon, of the picture, of the poem, — It 
is also my work. I can never quarrel with your 
182 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

state of mind concerning original attempts in 
your own art. I admire it rather. And I am 
pained to think of the grievous resistance which 
your genius has been so long tasked to overcome, 
of bodily suffering. 

You ask for my lectures. I wish they were fit 
to send. They should go immediately to Salem 
if they were. I have not allowed one of them to 
go in manuscript out of my family. The first 
one of the course, which is the most presentable, 
I will cheerfully lend you whenever I can get 
time to patch his coat a little. It is, however, 
already promised to two persons. 

I thank you for the beautiful little drawing you 
sent me of Perseus. It is admired of all behold¬ 
ers. Tell your sister Elizabeth that her account 
of Mr. Very interested me much, and I have 
already begged Mr. Whiting to bring him to our 
Lyceum, and he promised his good offices to get 
him here. 

R. W. Emerson. 

A letter mentions a medallion which Mrs. Haw¬ 
thorne had made of Charles Emerson, after his 
death : — 

Concord, May 18, 1840. 

My dear Miss Sophia, — I have begged Mr. 
Garey to call on you to-day for the medallion to 
go to Waterford, and the one for New York, if 
ready . . . one of which I wish to send to Mr. 
Abel Adams. 

Elizabeth [Hoar] is very well content with the 
183 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

cast, though she thinks it has lost some of the 
precision, as well as the agreeable tint, of the 
clay. All our friends find the likeness — some of 
them slowly — but all at last. We all count it a 
beautiful possession ; the gift of a Muse, and not 
the less valuable that it was so unexpected. You 
must now gratify us all by fixing a time when 
you will come to Concord and hear what we have 
to say of it. 

Will you not come hither the last week of this 
month, or the second week in June? If neither 
of these dates suits you, you shall choose any day 
thereafter, only do not fail us. 

Your friend and servant, 

R. W. Emerson. 

When arranging to escort the young artist to 
Concord for the proposed visit, he proceeds : — 

... In regard to certain expressions in your 
letter, I ought to say, you will presently be un¬ 
deceived. Though I am fond of writing, and of 
public speaking, I am a very poor talker and for 
the most part very much prefer silence. Of 
Charles’s beautiful talent in that art I have had 
no share ; but our common friend, Mr. Alcott, the 
prince of conversers, lives little more than a mile 
from our house, and we will call in his aid, as we 
often do, to make amends for our deficiency, 
when you come. . . . Will you say to your sister 
Elizabeth that I received her kind letter relating 
to certain high matters, which I have not yet 
184 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

been in the vein to answer, — indeed, I dream that 
she knows all my answer to that question, — has 
it ready in her rich suggestion, and only waits for 
mine to see how well they will tally. I have laid 
the letter by, shall presently read it again, and if 
I have anything material, I will write. 

With great regard, yours, 

R. W. Emerson. 

Concord, April 20, 1841. 

My dear Miss Sophia, — Will you accept from 
my sister Elizabeth Hoar and me the few accom¬ 
panying prints ? 

A word of apology must go with them. Eliza¬ 
beth and I sent, last summer, by a gentleman who 
was going to Europe, an order for a few prints 
of pictures of Raffaelle and Michel Angelo (spe¬ 
cifying particularly the Prophets and Sibyls of 
Michel), with the hope that we might receive 
something fit to send you. Our agent was less 
acquainted with these matters than we supposed; 
still, we hope they will not be quite without value 
in your studio, as we have both of us found some¬ 
thing to admire in these stern drawings. The 
Transfiguration is a more spirited copy than most 
that I have seen, though the principal figure 
seems never to be quite well copied. Here is a 
Virgin of Leonardo da Vinci and one from Cor¬ 
reggio. 

Will you have the goodness to thank your sis¬ 
ter Elizabeth for the fine statement she has given 
the Englishwoman [Miss Martineau] of the enter- 

185 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

prise we are all so proud of; and I can easily sup¬ 
pose the colonists were content with the portrait. 
She has in a note propounded to me certain ques¬ 
tions which and the like of which I always fancy 
one can answer with a word, as they arise ; — but 
to answer them with the pen, one must sit like 
Simmides from month to month, from year to year. 

With great regard, 

Your friend and servant, 

R. Waldo Emerson. 

Elizabeth Hoar wishes to keep the Martineau 
letter a day or two longer. I am also to thank 
your sister Elizabeth for the summons to the 
torchlight exhibition, which however I could not 
easily obey. 

A fragment, of most informal import, but exem¬ 
plifying Emerson’s quaint agility of expression, 
written about 1843, runs : — 

Do not be chagrined, and excellent lady, if I 
should demand interest in advance for my loan; 
but if possibly I can get my errands ready, I shall 
stop the passing coach, and load you with freight 
and commissions; not compliments and congratu¬ 
lations, merely. Do not misconceive me — but 
messages relative to merest chores. And so with 
thanks, 

Yours, R. W. E. 

Margaret Fuller d’Ossoli expresses herself, at 
the time of my parents’ marriage, as thoughtfully 
186 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 


as the rest. Her personality never ceased to 
hover about Concord, even after her death. She 
is a part of its fascination : — 

My dear Sophia, — After reading your letter 
I wanted to write a few lines, as are not in such a 
hasty, interrupted fashion. Yet not much have 
I to say, for great occasions of bliss, of bane, — 
tell their own story, and we would not by unne¬ 
cessary words come limping after the true sense. 
If ever mortal was secure of a pure and rational 
happiness which shall grow and extend into im¬ 
mortal life, I think it is you, for the love that 
binds you to him you love is wise and pure and 
religious; it is a love given not chosen, and the 
growth not of wants and wishes, but of the de¬ 
mands of character. Its whole scope and promise 
is very fair in my eyes ; and in daily life as well 
as in the long account I think there will be great 
happiness; for if ever I saw a man who combined 
delicate tenderness to understand the heart of a 
woman, with quiet depth and manliness enough 
to satisfy her, it is Mr. Hawthorne. ... To one 
who cannot think of love merely in the heart, or 
even in the common destiny of two souls, but as 
necessarily comprehending intellectual friendship 
too, it seems the happiest lot imaginable that lies 
before you. . . . The whole earth is decked for a 
bridal. I see not a spot upon her full and gold- 
bespangled drapery. All her perfumes breathe, 
and her eye glows with joy. . . . My affectionate 
remembrances to your friend. You rightly felt 
187 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

how glad I should be to be thought of in the 
happy hour. As far as bearing an intelligent 
heart, I think I deserve to be esteemed a friend. 
And thus in affection and prayer, dear Sophia, 
Yours, Margaret F. 

A year or two later my father received the fol¬ 
lowing letter from her : — 

Dear Mr. Hawthorne, — You must not think 
I have any black design against your domestic 
peace. Neither am I the agent of any secret 
tribunal of the dagger and cord ; nor am I com¬ 
missioned by the malice of some baffled lover to 
make you wretched. Yet it may look so, when 
you find me once again, in defiance of my failure 
last summer, despite your letter of full exposition, 
once more attempting to mix a foreign element 
in your well compounded cup. But indeed, oh 
severest and most resolute man, these proposi¬ 
tions are none of mine. How can I help it, if 
gentle souls, ill at ease elsewhere, wish to rest 
with you upon the margin of that sleepy stream ? 
How can I help it if they choose me for an 
interpreter ? [A suggestion is then made, for the 
second time, that my parents should admit a friend 
into the Old Manse as a boarder. The notion was 
sometimes alluded to by my mother in after-years 
with unfading horror.] I should like much to hear 
something about yourselves ; what the genius loci 
says, whether through voice of ghost, or rat, or 
winter wind, or kettle-singing symphony to the 
188 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 


happy duet; and whether by any chance you 
sometimes give a thought to your friend 

Margaret. 


And again: — 

New York, May 22, evening. 

Dear Sophia and Mr. Hawthorne, — I re¬ 
ceived your letter and read it with attention ; then 
laid it aside, and thought I would not reply, for so 
much had been said and written about my pam¬ 
phlet that I was weary of it, and had turned to 
other things. When my interest revives, I shall 
probably make reply, but I hope vivd voce . 

Yes! I hope to see you once more at the dear 
old house, with the green fields and lazy river; and 
have, perhaps, sweet hours [fragment tom away] 
and if all works well, I hope to come. Una alone 
will be changed; yet still, I think, the same. 
Farewell, dear friends, now; for this is only 
meant as a hasty sign of affection from M. 

Mrs. Hawthorne writes, at the threshold of The 
Wayside residence: — 

June 6, 1852, Sunday. 

My dearest Mother, — Your beautiful little 
note was very grateful to me. . . . We arrived at 
the Middlesex Hotel after one o’clock. At four 
o’clock I was driven to The Wayside. The cart- 
man had tumbled all the wet mattresses in a heap 
in the farthest corner of the barn, and I had them 
all pulled out to dry. It was very hot weather. 

189 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

A good deal was accomplished, when the man and 
woman who were working for me went to supper, 
and left me and Una in quiet possession of our 
home. 

We set forth slowly village-ward, and met Mr. 
Emerson and Mr. Thoreau. Mr. Emerson was 
most cordial, and his beautiful smile added to 
the wonderful beauty of the sunset. He turned 
back and walked with us till we met the car¬ 
riage. The next morning, Una actually nailed 
down the brown paper upon the dining-room and 
Study, and was very helpful and charming, and 
perfectly enchanted with her home. It is really 
astonishing what magical changes have been 
wrought inside the horrible old house by paint¬ 
ers, paperers, and carpenters, and a little uphol¬ 
stery. The carpet on the Study looks like rich 
velvet. It has a ground of lapis lazuli blue, and 
upon that is an acanthus figure of fine wood- 
color ; and then, once in a while is a lovely rose 
and rosebud and green leaf. I like it even better 
than when I bought it. The woodwork down¬ 
stairs is all painted in oak, and it has an admira¬ 
ble effect, and is quite in keeping with the anti¬ 
quity of the dwelling. The dining-room is quite 
elegant, with a handsome paper having a silvery 
sheen, and the brown and green Brussels carpet. 
When Mr. Hawthorne arrived, he had quite a 
civilized impression of the house at first glance, 
and was delighted with it, not having seen it 
since his first visit in snow-time, when it seemed 
fit only for a menagerie of cattle. You will be 
190 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

glad to know that I have done nothing myself, 
having so many assistants. But it is no sinecure 
to keep people at work. Una was impatient of 
waiting for papa and Julian, and walked off to 
meet them. At last I heard the rumble of the 
carriage, and took baby out on the piazza. When 
Julian passed, he was at the open window of the 
carriage ; and baby saw him and screamed for 
joy; and Julian shouted to see me; and the 
echoes were fairly roused by the ecstasy of meet¬ 
ing, all round. 

The other morning, at the Middlesex Hotel, 
Una remarked that she was going to see Mr. 
Emerson. I supposed she was jesting; but I 
missed her soon after, and in about an hour she 
returned, and said she had been to see him. She 
had rung at the door, and a servant came, and 
she inquired for Mr. Emerson ! He came out and 
greeted her very kindly, and said, “ I suppose you 
have come to see Mrs. Emerson.” “ No,” replied 
Una, “ I have come to see you .” So he politely 
put aside his studies, and accompanied his young 
lady visitor over the gardens and into the Gothic 
summer-house [constructed of twisted branches 
by Mr. Alcott]. I called there on my way here, 
and Mr. Emerson told me that he would like Una 
to go in and out, just as if it were her own home. 
I said that he was Una’s friend ever since she had 
heard “The Humble Bee” and “The Rhodora.” 

Una likes her native place prodigiously, and 
everybody near and far seems quite “angelic,” as 
Julian would say. . . . Last Sunday Mrs. Emer- 
191 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

son and her three children came to make a call. 
The Study is the pet room, the temple of the 
Muses and the Delphic Shrine. The beautiful 
carpet lays the foundation of its charms, and the 
oak woodwork harmonizes with the tint in which 
Endymion is painted. At last I have Endymion 
where I always wanted it — in my husband’s Study, 
and it occupies one whole division of the wall. 
In the corner on that side stands the pedestal 
with Apollo on it, and there is a fountain-shaped 
vase of damask and yellow roses. Between the 
windows is the Transfiguration [given by Mr. 
Emerson]. (The drawing-room is to be redeemed 
with one picture only, — Correggio’s Madonna and 
Christ.) On another side of the Study are the two 
Lake Comos. On another, that agreeable picture 
of Luther and his family around the Christmas- 
tree, which Mr. George Bradford gave to Mr. 
Hawthorne. Mr. Emerson took Julian to walk 
in the woods, the other afternoon. I have no 
time to think what to say, for there is a dear lit¬ 
tle mob around me. Baby looks fairest of fair 
to-day. She walks miles about the house. 

Ever and ever your most loving child, 

Sophia. 


July 4 - 

My dearest Mother, — Here is another Sun¬ 
day again, with seemingly no time between, so 
fast does the old Father hasten on. Last week 
was memorable in the children’s life by the occur¬ 
rence of a party. Mrs. Emerson, with magnifi- 
192 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD . 

cent hospitality, invited all the children in town, 
from babyhood upwards (and their mothers), for 
a great festival. Rose and I were prevented from 
going by the arrival of three gentlemen from Bos¬ 
ton, who stayed to tea, one being the brilliant Mr. 
Whipple. On that day we had five gentlemen, 
among them another Whipple, a man of genius 
and a colonel of brave renown, whose hair stands 
up straight upon his brow, over fine eyes and a 
swarthy face. He invited us to go to his beauti¬ 
ful home on the borders of Winnipiseogee Lake. 
A great many gentlemen come to see Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne all the time from foreign parts. That 
morning the first arrival was General Solomon 
McNeil, a veteran of nearly seven feet in height, 
whose head was amazingly near the ceiling of our 
low dining-room, and who stooped low to go out 
of the door. He had an extraordinary face. His 
gray hair stood up straight, as well as Colonel 
Whipple’s, and was full of demonic energy ; and 
his gray eyes flashed beneath overhanging brows. 
As he entered the room, I advanced to meet him. 
He said, “Mrs. Hawthorne, I presume. I have 
scarcely seen your husband ; but I have known 
him well for fifteen years.” (At this, he raised 
his hand and arm as if he were wielding a sword, 
with intent to do battle.) “ And I told his friend, 
when I read his book, — his friend who said that 
he was perfect, except for a want of confidence 
in his power,— I told him, Never fear; he will 
go it! ” (Another sweep with the sword.) “ He 
will go it ! I found ideas there — ideas l” I 
193 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

vanished, to call my husband. Mr. Hawthorne 
then came in, and we found the old gentleman 
intently gazing at my husband’s portrait, — so 
intently that he did not observe our entrance, till 
Mr. Hawthorne spoke. He turned, and placed 
his hand with such force upon my husband’s 
shoulder that you would have supposed he had 
dubbed him knight. They left the room to go 
to the Study, the General brandishing the sword 
tremendously at every sentence he uttered on the 
way. It was really good to see such a man; so 
mighty in physique, with such a strong character, 
such resolute will, and such a gleam of loving¬ 
kindness in his eyes, to temper the force. 

I have wandered off from the party. The chil¬ 
dren had a charming time, and brought back word 
that each had behaved perfectly. The next day I 
went to tell Mrs. Emerson why Rose and I did not 
appear. I found Mr. Emerson, sitting on the side 
doorstep, with Edith on his knee and Edward rid¬ 
ing about the lawn on his pony. Mr. Emerson said 
that “ the show of children was very pretty. But 
Julian! He makes his mark everywhere; there is 
no child so fine as Julian ! ” Was not that plea¬ 
sant to hear from him ? I told him how singular 
it was that Julian should find in Concord the de¬ 
sire of his imagination for two years — a pony 
[Mr. Emerson had already superintended the lit¬ 
tle boy’s mounting, and falling off from, Edward’s 
pony]; and he smiled like Sirius. “ Well, that is 
good. Send him this afternoon.” He then called 
Edward, and bade him go home with me, mount 
194 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

Julian, and bring him back ; and this was accord¬ 
ingly done. But first, Mr. Emerson invited me 
to go up with him to the hilltop, opposite his 
house, where there is a fine view. His house is 
in a thick bower of evergreen and horse-chestnut 
trees. The grove is Academe, and could not have 
been more musical or deep; and Plato’s disciple 
walks there. 

Last week I drew The Wayside for George 
Putnam, who is going to have it engraved. I 
must also make sketches of Mr. Emerson’s and 
the Old Manse. To-morrow Una goes to a pic¬ 
nic at Mrs. Pratt’s [mother-in-law of a daughter 
of Mr. Alcott’s] with Ellen and Edith Emerson. 
We expect Louisa Hawthorne this week. She 
has been coming for a good while, but was de¬ 
layed by the severe illness of Mrs. Robert Man¬ 
ning. 

Yesterday Mr. Hawthorne went to Boston to 
meet Mr. Atherton. A daguerreotypist seized 
him, and took three pictures of him, from which 
the man politely asks me to choose. They are 
somewhat good. Julian had a tooth out the other 
day, and laughed instead of crying. Edward was 
so unfortunate a day or two since as to have four 
teeth drop out at once ; and Mr. Emerson says 
he must be put under a barrel until the others 
grow. 

Monday p. m. Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and Ju¬ 
lian have gone to the picnic. This morning I 
went to the post-office, for I did not like to send 
Una when boys were firing crackers in every 
i9S 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

direction. Julian always is my shadow — so he 
went with me. I stopped at Mrs. Emerson’s, to 
ask her when and how her children were going. 
I found a superb George Washington in the din¬ 
ing-room, nearly as large as life, engraved from 
Stuart’s painting. We saw no one of the family, 
but finally a door opened, and the rich music of 
Mr. Emerson’s voice filled the entry. Julian ran 
out at the sound, and Ellen and her father came 
into the room. Mr. Emerson asked me if that 
head (pointing to Washington) were not a fine 
celebration of the Fourth of July. “He would 
seem to have absorbed into that face all the se¬ 
renity of these United States, and left none else¬ 
where, excepting” (and he laid his hand on Julian) 

— “excepting what is in Julian. Washington is 
the Great Repose, and Julian is the Little Repose 

— hereafter to become also the Great Repose ! ” 
He asked if Julian were going to the picnic; and 
I told him “no,” as I was not going. “Oh, but 
if Una is going, that would be a divided cherry, 
would it not ? ” Finding that Mrs. Emerson was 
to go, and that they were all to ride, I of course 
had no objection. And then Mr. Emerson wanted 
Mr. Hawthorne to go with him, at five o’clock. 
My lord consented, and so they are all gone. 
Last evening, Mrs. Emerson came to see us with 
her sister, loaded with roses, and she was de¬ 
lighted with our house. Rosebud walked all 
round with us, in perfect sobriety, listening to 
our conversation. Is not this hot weather de¬ 
lightful ? It is to me luxury and strength. Mr. 

196 


FROM LENOX TO CONCORD 

Hawthorne has sold the grass for thirty dollars. 
He has cut his bean-poles in his own woods. We 
find The Wayside prettier and prettier. Baby 
keeps pulling my arm. 

Your child, 
i97 


Sophy. 


CHAPTER VIII 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

The letters to Mrs. Peabody sketch on : — 

Dearest Mother, — We have had an Eng¬ 
lishman here, an artist, whom George Putnam [a 
cousin] sent to take sketches. He came here 
with his carpet-bag, and there seemed nothing to 
be done but to ask him to stay with us while 
in town. I was the more glad to do so, hoping 
thereby to save George some pennies, as I was 
obliged to disappoint him about making the draw¬ 
ings myself. This artist is from the North of 
England. He seems very good and simple- 
hearted, and he talks like the Cataract of Lodore. 
He has the magnetic influence upon Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne which produces sleepiness. 

He is enchanted with The Wayside. 

You know Mr. Hawthorne is a sort of load¬ 
stone, which attracts all men’s confidences with¬ 
out a word of question, and scarcely any an¬ 
swer ; and so Mr. Miller tells his whole life and 
thoughts. If he has the national reservedness 
generally, it certainly vanishes in my husband’s 
presence, for it seems as if he could not tell 
enough. On Monday and Tuesday we expected 
to have Mr. Ticknor here, whom Mr. Hawthorne 
198 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

wished to see about his book, but he did not 
come. 

Mr. Hawthorne feels better now, and looks nat¬ 
ural, with living color. [He had been terribly 
shocked and overcome by the death, by drown¬ 
ing from a burning vessel, of his sister Louisa.] 
Poor, dear Louisa! It is harder and harder 
for me to realize that I shall not see her again. 
And she had such a genuine joy in the children. 
But it is a positive bliss to me to contemplate 
Louisa and her mother together. If there is 
anything immortal in life it is the home rela¬ 
tions, and heaven would be no heaven without 
them. God never has knit my soul with my 
husband’s soul for such a paltry moment as this 
human life! I have not loved my mother for one 
short day ! My children do not thrill my heart¬ 
strings with less than an eternal melody. We 
know that God cannot trifle! This is all more 
real to me than what my human eye rests on. I 
heard one of the truly second-sighted say once, 
that in a trance he saw the spiritual world ; and 
while gazing enraptured on its green pastures, a 
spirit whispered to him, “ Out of this greenness 
your earthly pastures are green.” 

Yesterday afternoon Mr. Miller left us. Oh, 
dear, how the little man talked ! I do not know 
as the Cataract of Lodore is an adequate exem¬ 
plification, for that has some airy, fairy jets and 
overfalls. But the good faith and earnestness 
with which Mr. Miller coined the air into words 
were more like the noise and pertinacity of a man- 
199 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

ufactory. He was certainly a new phase of man 
to me. When he finally vanished, with his port¬ 
folio under his arm, my wings sprang up as if an 
iron band had been holding them down. It was 
with a truly divine patience that my husband gave 
ear to this personated Paper-Mill, because he saw 
that he was good and true and honest. (I might 
have only said “good.”) Into those depths of 
misty gray light which stand for eyes under my 
husband’s brow, the little man was drawn as by 
a line. Miss Bremer said to me of Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne’s eyes, “ Wonderful, wonderful eyes ! They 
give, but receive not.” But they do draw in. 
Mr. Miller kept his face turned to him, as the 
sunflower to the sun; and when I spoke, and 
he tried to turn to me, his head whirled back 
again. It really is marvelous, how the mighty 
heart, with its charities, and comprehending hu¬ 
manity, which glows and burns beneath the grand 
intellect, as if to keep warm and fused the other¬ 
wise cold abstractions of thought, — it is marvel¬ 
ous how it opens the bosoms of men. I have 
seen it so often, in persons who have come to 
him. So Mr. Melville, generally silent and in¬ 
communicative, pours out the rich floods of his 
mind and experience to him, so sure of apprehen¬ 
sion, so sure of a large and generous interpreta¬ 
tion, and of the most delicate and fine judgment. 
Thus only could the poetic insight and far-search¬ 
ing analytic power be safely intrusted to him. 
To him only who can tenderly sympathize must 
be given the highest and profoundest insight 
200 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 


How wonderfully it is arranged, that in the very 
person who most imperiously demands absolute 
beauty and perfection (for so does Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne), in this very person is found the subtlest 
and widest appreciation of human shortcomings, 
and the pleadings of weakness and failure. In 
“Blithedale ” I think one feels this tender human¬ 
ity. It will come out more and more. 

Shall I tell you where I am ? I am sitting in our 
acacia grove, on the hill, with a few pines near 
enough for me to hear their oceanic murmur. It 
is only necessary for me to shut my eyes, to hear 
every variety of water sounds. The pine gives 
me the long, majestic swell and retreat of the sea 
waves; the birch, the silvery tinkle of a pebbly 
brook; the acacia, the soft fall of a cascade; and 
all mingled together, a sound of many waters most 
refreshing to the sense. I thank heaven that 
we possess a hilltop. No amount of plains could 
compete with the value of this. To look down 
on the world actually is typical of looking down 
spiritually, and so it is good. Una and Julian are 
wandering around; Una having been reading to 
Julian. Rosebud is asleep. Oh, she enjoys a 
summer day so much ! This morning I set her 
down on the green grass. Without looking at 
me, the happiest smile began to dawn over her 
face ; and then she suddenly waved her hands 
like wings, and set forth. To fall down seemed a 
new joy. Julian undertook to be her escort. It 
was a charming picture — the two figures grouped 
together; the fair little blue-eyed face turned 
201 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

up to the great brown, loving eyes, and all sorts 
of dulcet sounds responding to one another. I 
could not help smiling to read in your letter that 
you would have a rug spread for her. I should 
as soon think of keeping an untamed bird on a 
rug as baby. I assure you that since she has had 
the use of her feet she does not pause in the race 
of life. ... It is good to see such an expression 
of immense satisfaction as dwells upon her face. 

Most lovingly your child, 

SOPHIECHEN. 

September 19. 

My dear Mother, — On Friday Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne returned from nearly a three weeks’ visit 
to the Isles of Shoals. I did not tell you about 
it while he was there, because your heart is so 
tender I knew you would have no peace, and you 
would all the time be thinking that he was sepa¬ 
rated from us by water . But here he is, looking 
in splendid health, all safe and sound. General 
Pierce, and some other dignitaries with their wives, 
met Mr. Hawthorne for a day or two ; and the 
rest of the time he had all to himself. I must tell 
you a story, by which you will be enabled to see 
into political slander. An officer of the army, 
resident at Baltimore, told the editor of a paper 
friendly to General Pierce, that while in Mexico 
General Pierce was at a gambling-table with an¬ 
other officer; and, a squabble ensuing, this offi¬ 
cer struck General Pierce in the face, and that 
the General took it without a word. He told the 


202 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

editor also that the officer who offered this insult 
was in California, making it difficult to have a 
word from him upon the subject. The editor, in 
perplexity, sent the paragraph to General Pierce, 
who was at a loss how to prove the utter falsity 
of the whole story. But, behold, the next thing 
which he laid his hand upon, on his table, was 
a letter postmarked “California.” He opened it, 
and it was from the very officer who was said to 
have insulted him so foully, and was an expression 
of the highest admiration and respect, and con¬ 
gratulations upon his present position. This was 
an unanswerable denial ; and so he sent the 
letter to Baltimore. This story, fabricated out of 
nothing but malice, was meant to injure in two 
ways, by proving him a gambler, and also pusil¬ 
lanimous. The slanderous officer will probably 
cease to be one, as I believe falsehood is not con¬ 
sidered a military grace. 

Mr. Hawthorne went to Brunswick, having 
been cordially invited by the President of the 
College. He met his classmates there. On ac¬ 
count of the heavy rains he was detained so many 
hours on his way thither that he did not arrive till 
noon of the day, and thus providentially escaped 
hearing himself orated and poetized about in the 
morning. Brunswick was so full that he had to 
go to Bath to sleep; and there he had funny 
adventures, some old sea-captains insisting upon 
considering him a brother, and calling him all the 
time “ Cap’n Hathorne.” At the Isles of Shoals 
he had the ocean all to himself; but when he 
203 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

wished to see human beings, he found Mr. and 
Mrs. Thaxter very pleasant. Mrs. Thaxter sent 
Una a necklace of native shells with a gold and 
coral clasp, Julian a plume made of white owl 
feathers, and Rosebud a most exquisite wreath 
of sea-moss upon a card. I kept a journal for 
my husband, according to his express inj unction. 
The children missed papa miserably, and I could 
not bear the trial very well. I could not eat, sit¬ 
ting opposite his empty chair at table, and I lost 
several pounds of flesh. 

To-day, when baby waked from a nap of four 
hours and a half, she called for the first time, 
“ Mamma! ” I ran up, and she was smiling like 
a constellation of stars. She mourned after papa 
a great deal, and sometimes would hold a long 
discourse about him, pointing all the while at the 
portrait. One day a neighbor sent me, to cheer 
my loneliness, the most superb bouquet of rare 
and costly rosebuds that I ever saw. I put them 
in the Study, in a pretty champagne-glass [the 
tall, old-fashioned kind], and they filled the room 
with fragrance. I tended them very carefully; 
but they bloomed too fully at last. Yet just at 
that moment, the lady gave me a fresh supply — 
the very day before Mr. Hawthorne’s return ; and 
on that bright Friday afternoon I put the vase 
of delicious rosebuds, and a beautiful China plate 
of peaches and grapes, and a basket of splendid 
golden Porter apples on his table ; and we opened 
the western door [leading from the Study to the 
lawn] and let in a flood of sunsetting. Apollo’s 
204 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

“ beautiful disdain ” seemed kindled anew. En- 
dymion smiled richly in his dream of Diana. 
Lake Como was wrapped in golden mist. The 
divine form in the Transfiguration floated in light. 
I thought it would be a pity if Mr. Hawthorne 
did not come that moment. As I thought this, I 
heard the railroad-coach — and he was here. He 
looked, to be sure, as he wrote in one of his let¬ 
ters, “twice the man he was.” Dear little Una 
went to the village with the mail-bag, just before 
it was time to expect her father, and I told her 
I hoped she would drive home with him. She 
met him, caught a glance, and he was gone. It 
surprised me that her sense of duty prevented 
her from turning back at once. I asked her why 
she did not, as the letters were not of so much 
importance, since papa had come. “ Oh,” said she, 
“ I did not know but it would be wrong to go 
back only because I wanted to.” At last she 
came. She entered the Study in a very quiet 
way (apparently), received his loving greeting, and 
then, taking off her hat, sat down at my feet to 
look at him, and hear him. When she went to 
bed, she said, “ Oh, mamma, my head has tingled 
so, ever since I saw papa, that I could hardly 
bear the pain! Do not tell him, for it might 
trouble him.” Was it not sweet and heroic in 
her to keep so quiet for two hours ? This is a 
good specimen of Una’s powers of self-sacrifice. 
It has sometimes made me wish to weep over her 
delicious tears. 


205 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Sunday, October 24, 1852. 

My dearest Mother, —To-day we all went 
into the woods above and behind our house, and 
sat down and wove wreaths of red and russet 
leaves, and dreamed and mused with a far-off 
sound of booming waves and plash of sea on 
smooth beach in the pine-trees about us. It was 
beautiful to see the serene gleam of Una’s face, 
fleckered with sunlight; and Julian, with his coro¬ 
net of curls, sitting quiet in the great peace. My 
husband, at full length on the carpet of withered 
pine, presented no hindrance to the tides of 
divine life that are ready to flow through us, if we 
will. There are no words to describe such enjoy¬ 
ment ; but you can understand it well. It is the 
highest wisdom, I think, to sometimes do nothing; 
but only keep still, and reverently be happy, and 
receptive of the great omnipresence. How studi¬ 
ously we mortals keep it out of our eternal busi¬ 
ness. There should be no business at least once 
a week. I rather think it is the best proof that 
Moses was inspired that he instituted a Sabbath 
of rest from labor. God needs not, but man 
needs, rest. 

Sunset, I left you to go out again and join my 
husband on the hilltop, while the children’s voices 
kept us advised of their welfare somewhere about 
the place. My husband and I sat on a terrace 
on the side of the hill, both looking off upon the 
tranquil horizon, beginning to be veiled with a 
dim blue haze. Una ran up, calling out that 
Mr. Hosmer wished to see papa and mamma. So 
206 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

we descended, and met the old gentleman on a 
lower terrace, where I invited him to sit on the 
green sofa; and we grouped about him. Julian 
at first went rushing through our ranks like a 
young Olympian exercising heroic games, and 
finally extended himself on the grass to listen to 
the palaver. Mr. Hosmer began with the Great 
Daniel [Webster], who died at three o’clock this 
morning. He expressed admiration of him, as we 
all did ; and I thought his death an immense loss. 
Mr. Hosmer was very glad that he died in the 
fullness of his power of mind, and not sunken in 
the socket. He discoursed upon the massive 
grandeur of his speeches, his wonderful letters, 
and of all that was mighty in him. Also of his 
shortcomings and their retribution. You would 
have liked to have heard Mr. Hosmer glorify John 
Adams — even his appearance. He said that at 
eighty-three (when he sat near him every Sunday 
at church) he was a “ perfect beauty ; ” that his 
cheeks were as unwrinkled as a girl’s, and as fair 
and white, and his head was a noble crown ; 
and that any woman would fall in love with him. 
So we talked of great men, till I came in to watch 
baby’s sleep. She soon waked, all smiles and 
love; and then Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Hosmer 
came in, still upon the theme of great men. Mr. 
Hosmer thought Oliver Cromwell greatest of all, 
I believe. Una and I made you a wreath of richly 
tinted oak leaves to-day, and when I go to New¬ 
ton I will take it. I wish you could hear her 
repeat poetry in her dulcet, touching tones. I 
207 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


never heard any one repeat poetry so much to my 
mind. 

Evening. Mr. Hawthorne is drawn forcibly 
out of doors by the moon’s rays, they are so clear 
and superb to-night. He looked out and sighed, 
for he did not really want to go ; but he felt under 
a moral necessity. I walk out in him , being 
mamma and nurse [Rosebud was still up]. When 
you write to Mr. Plumly, bless him for me for the 
mantle [his gift to Mrs. Peabody] and his beauti¬ 
ful, refreshing letter about it. I had a great mind 
to write to him myself of his appreciation of you 
and of my husband. What a noble, lovely person 
he is! 

Your child, Sophy. 


April 14, 1853. 

My husband went off in a dark rain this morn¬ 
ing, on his way to Washington. Mary Herne 
called to baby to come and take care of her dolly, 
who was upon the floor in the kitchen. Rose 
rushed in a breakneck manner across the parlor, 
exclaiming as if in the utmost maternal distress, 
“ Oh, mershy, mershy ! ” and rescued Dolly from 
her peril. She was quite happy and still in the 
kitchen; and then I heard her shout, “ I like it 
— I like it motch ! ” I asked Mary what it was 
that baby liked so “ motch.” When Mary got up 
to investigate, she found baby in the closet at the 
molasses jug, still crying, “I like it — I like it 
motch ! ” She was very much diverted by our 
consternation; and when, at tea-time, I was speak- 
208 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

ing of it, she burst into inextinguishable laughter; 
and as soon as she could speak, said, “ I glad! 
Was ever such a mischief ? ” Twice to-day she 
began to go into the Study for “papa take her.” 
I sent Julian to the village at five, and he returned 
in a pouring rain. His sack kept him dry, but he 
thought he was soaked to the skin because his 
nose was wet. He brought a letter from Char¬ 
lotte Bridge, inclosing two notes to my husband 
from Mr. Bridge. To-day I found nothing in the 
post-office but Mr. Emerson. He walked along 
with me and said he had a letter from Mr. Synge 
[whom Hawthorne met, later, in England], an 
attache of the British Legation, asking for an 
autograph of Mr. Hawthorne. Grandpapa, baby, 
and I sat in the parlor in the afternoon, and baby 
was in the highest spirits, and conversed for the 
first time in the most facetious manner, casting 
side glances, and laughing with a great pretense 
of being vastly amused, and of superior insight 
into the bearing of things. 

April 19. The great day of the Concord fight. 
I was awakened by cannon and the ringing of 
bells. The cannon thundered all around the wel¬ 
kin, in a very grand, stately, and leisurely manner. 
I read the history of the day to the children. 
What made the morning beautiful and springlike 
to me was a letter which Julian brought from my 
husband. 

April 21. A day like a dulcimer. It was so 
charming to rake and plant and prune that I re¬ 
mained out a long time, and tore my hands nicely. 

209 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Julian requested to go and take a quiet walk in 
the woods, and returned just as I was becoming 
anxious about him, shouting, with a sweet-brier 
bush which he had pulled up by the roots in the 
wood. I took a spade, and dug a great cave, and 
planted it beneath his western window; and I 
am sure it must grow for him, for he sent sun¬ 
shine down into the earth from his eyes upon the 
roots while I was setting it out. 

The stage-coach drove up and brought me Mrs. 
S. G. Ward and Sarah Clarke. Mrs. Ward was 
cruelly disappointed not to see Mr. Hawthorne; 
and I told her that he would probably tear his 
hair when he came back and found what he had 
lost. “ Tell him,” said she, “ that I tore out all 
mine.” She was splendid and radiant beyond my 
power to tell; dressed in rich green and a rose- 
colored bonnet, and her beautiful hair curling 
round her wonderful face. I do not believe there 
is another such woman in the world. When she 
had stepped from the house, Julian begged me to 
run after her, and tell her she must go to England 
[whither the family now expected to journey] ; 
and with the most enchanting grace she laughed, 
and said, “Tell him I certainly shall! ” 

Sunday. At ten, my little flock gathered [Mrs. 
Hawthorne taught reading, geography, drawing, 
etc., to several children besides her own, for love, 
and gave them Sunday-school lessons also]; and 
I read them the story of Balaam’s ass, and about 
the death of Moses. They were much afflicted 
that Moses was not allowed to go to the Promised 
210 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

Land. I read that he looked down from Mount 
Pisgah and saw Canaan and the City of Palms, 
and showed them my Cuban sketch of a palm, 
describing exactly how they looked and grew; and 
the vision of the City of Palms became very beau¬ 
tiful to them. Poor little Mary Ellen felt ill, but 
she was so interested that I could not persuade 
her to go home. 

April 26. I met Mr. Rockwood Hoar, who 
congratulated us upon our expected residence in 
England, which he said was “the only place fit 
to live in out of America.” 

April 29. A neighbor came yesterday with an 
English white rose, and set out the tree for me. 
He said it was for Rosebud. We are getting to 
look quite nice, but all will look black and bare 
to my husband, after being at the South. Baby 
is filled with joy to be out in such lovely weather, 
and makes no hesitation to take the heaviest tools, 
and dig and rake and hoe. She will not come in 
even to drink her milk. Some documents came 
this morning from the State Department, relating 
to the Consulate at Liverpool. The peach-trees 
are all in bloom, and the cherry-trees also. I 
looked about, as I sat down in our pine grove, and 
tried to bear my husband’s absence but it is de¬ 
solation without him. This is the sweetest place 
— I really cannot bear to leave it. My scholars 
drew flowers, this morning. Mr. Emerson and 
Ellery Channing passed along ; and Mr. Emerson 
asked Julian to go with the children to Fairy Land 
[in Walden woods]. He went, in a state of ec- 
211 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

static bliss. He brought me home, in a basket, 
cowslips, anemones, and violets. 

In June the voyage to England, as Hawthorne 
was appointed Consul at Liverpool by President 
Pierce, was undertaken, and pleasantly accom¬ 
plished. 

Hawthorne’s “ English Note-Books,” as well as 
the elaborated papers that make up “Our Old 
Home,” disclose something of his daily life in 
England during his consulship ; but it was in the 
rapid, familiar letters of my mother to her family 
that his life was most freely narrated. I have 
preserved these letters, and shall give extracts 
from them in the pages that follow, prefacing and 
interpolating a few girlish memories of my father 
and of the places in which I saw him, although 
they are trivial and meagre in incident. He died 
the day before my thirteenth birthday, and as my 
existence had begun at a time when his quiet life 
was invaded (if we may use that term in connec¬ 
tion with a welcome guest) by fame, with its at¬ 
tendant activity in the outside world, my inter¬ 
course with him was both juvenile and brief. In 
England, he mingled more than ever before with 
the members of literary and fashionable society. 
I, who in 1853 was but two years old, had to be 
satisfied with a glance and a smile, which were so 
much less than he had been able to give to my 
brother and sister in their happier childhood days, 
for they had enjoyed hours of his companionship 
as a constant pastime. I was, moreover, much 
212 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

younger than the others, and was never allowed 
to grow, as I wished, out of the appellations of 
Rosebud, Baby, and Bab (as my father always 
called me), and all the infantine thought which 
those pet names imply. I longed myself to hear 
the splendidly grotesque fairy tales, sprung from 
his delicious jollity of imagination, which Una and 
Julian had reveled in when our father had been at 
leisure in Lenox and Concord; and the various 
frolics about which I received appetizing hints as 
I grew into girlhood made me seem to myself a 
stranger who had come too late. But a stranger 
at Hawthorne’s side could be very happy, and, 
whatever my losses, I knew myself to be rich. 

In the early years of our stay in England his 
personality was most radiant. His face was sunny, 
his aspect that of shining elegance. There was 
the perpetual gleam of a glad smile on his mouth 
and in his eyes. His eyes were either a light 
gray or a violet blue, according to his mood. His 
hair was brown and waved loosely (I take it very 
hard when people ask me if it was at all red!), 
and his complexion was as clear and luminous as 
his mother’s, who was the most beautiful woman 
some people have ever seen. He was tall, and 
with as little superfluous flesh and as much sturdy 
vigor as a young athlete; for his mode of life 
was always athletic, simple, and abstemious. He 
leaned his head a little to one side, often, in a 
position indicating alert rest, such as we find in 
many Greek statues, — so different from the 
straight, dogged pose of a Roman emperor. He 
213 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


was very apt to make an assent with an upward 
movement of the head, a comfortable h’m-m, and 
a half-smile. Sympathetic he was, indeed, and 
warm with the fire that never goes out in great 
natures. He had much dignity; so much that 
persons in his own country sometimes thought 
him shy and reticent to the verge of morbidness. 
But it was merely the gentlemanliness of the 
man, who was jocund with no one but his inti¬ 
mate friends, and never fierce except with rascals, 
as I observed on one or two occasions. Those 
who thought him too silent were bores whom he 
desired not to attract. Those who thought him 
unphilosophical (and some philosophers thought 
that) were not artists, and could not analyze his 
work. Those who knew him for a man and a 
friend were manly and salubrious of soul them¬ 
selves. They have given plenty of testimony as 
to the good-fellowship of a nature which could be 
so silent at will. 

He was usually reserved, but he was ready for 
action all the time. His full, smooth lips, sensi¬ 
tive as a child’s, would tell a student of facial 
lines how vivid was his life, though absolutely 
under his cool command. He was a delightful 
companion even when little was said, because his 
eyes spoke with a sort of apprehension of your 
thought, so that you felt that your expression of 
face was a clear record for him, and that words 
would have been a sort of anticlimax. His com¬ 
panionship was exquisitely restful, since it was 
instinctively sympathetic. He did not need to 
214 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

exert himself to know you deeply, and he saw all 
the good in you there was to know; and the weak¬ 
ness and the wrong of any heart he weighed as 
nicely in the balance of tender mercy as we could 
do in pity for ourselves. I always felt a great 
awe of him, a tremendous sense of his power. 
His large eyes, liquid with blue and white light 
and deep with dark shadows, told me even when 
I was very young that he was in some respects 
different from other people. He could be most 
tender in outward action, but he never threw 
such action away. He knew swine under the 
cleverest disguise. I speak of outward acts of 
tenderness. As for his spirit, it was always arous¬ 
ing mine, or any one’s, and acting towards one’s 
spiritual being invisibly and silently, but with 
gentle earnestness. He evinced by it either a 
sternly sweet dignity of tolerance, or an appro¬ 
bation generous as a broad meadow, or a sadly 
glanced, adverse comment that lashed one’s inner 
consciousness with remorse. He was meditative, 
as all those are who care that the world is full 
of sorrow and sin, but cheerful, as those are who 
have the character and genius to see the finite 
beauty and perfection in the world, which are 
sent to the true-hearted as indications of heaven. 
He could be full of cheer, and at the same time 
never lose the solemnity of a perception of the 
Infinite, — that familiar fact which we, so many 
of us, have ceased to fear, but which the greatest 
men so remember and reverence. He never 
became wholly merged in fun, however gay the 
215 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

games in which he joined with us children ; just 
as a man of refinement who has been in war never 
quite throws aside the dignity of the sorrow which 
he has seen. He might seem, at a superficial 
glance, to be the merriest of us all, but on second 
thoughts he was not. Of course, there were times 
when it was very evident to me that my father 
was as comfortable and happy as he cared to be. 
When he stood upon the hearth-rug, before the 
snapping, blushing English fire (always poked 
into a blaze towards evening, as he was about 
to enter the parlor), —when he stood there with 
his hands clasped behind him, swaying from side 
to side in a way peculiar to him, and which re¬ 
called the many sea-swayed ancestors of his who 
had kept their feet on rolling decks, then he was 
a picture of benevolent pleasure. Perhaps, for 
this moment, the soldier from the battlefields of 
the soul ceased to remember scenes of cruelty 
and agony. He swayed from side to side, and 
raised himself on his toes, and creaked his slip¬ 
pered heels jocosely, and smiled upon me, and 
lost himself in agreeable musings. He was very 
courteous, entirely sincere, and quiet with fixed 
principles as a great machine with consistent 
movement. He treated children handsomely; 
harshness was not in him to be subdued, and 
scorn of anything that was honestly developing 
would have seemed to him blasphemy. He 
stooped to my intelligence, and rejoiced it. We 
were usually a silent couple when off for a walk 
together, or when we met by chance in the house- 
216 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

hold. I suppose that we were seeing which could 
outdo the other at “holding the tongue.” But 
still, our intercourse, as I remarked before, might 
be complete. I knew him very well indeed,— 
his power, his supremacy of honesty, his wealth 
of refinement. And he, I was fully aware, could 
see through me as easily as if I were a soul in 
one of his own books. 

Even as a child, knowing that he could not 
think me a remunerative companion, I realized 
how remarkable it was that in all his being there 
was not an atom of the poison of contempt. If 
he did not love stupidity, he forgave it. If he 
was strong with analysis and the rejection of all 
sham and wrong, his hand was ready to grasp 
any hand, because it was a human creature’s, 
whose destiny was a part of every destiny — even 
Christ’s. This sympathy, which caused the choice 
he had made of his character-studies, and brought 
many confessions to his judgment from bewil¬ 
dered men and women, was with him so entire 
that it showed itself in the little things of exist¬ 
ence, as a whole garden-path is noble with the 
nature of the rose that stands blooming there. 

His aspect avoided, as did that of his art, which 
exactly reproduced his character, anything like 
self-conscious picturesqueness. It is pleasant to 
have the object of our regard unconscious of him¬ 
self. He had a way of ignoring, while observing 
automatically, all accessories, which reminded us 
that his soul was ever awake, and waiting to be 
made free of earthly things and common ideas. 

2i 7 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

During our European life he frequently wore a 
soft brown felt hat and a brown talma of finest 
broadcloth, whose Greek-like folds and double¬ 
decked effect were artistic, but did not tempt him 
to pose or remember his material self. He was as 
forgetful of his appearance as an Irishman of the 
true quality, who may have heard something about 
his coat or his hair, but has let slip from his mind 
what it was, and cares not, so long as the song of 
his comrades is tender and the laughter generous. 
In some such downright way, I was convinced, my 
father regarded the beauty and stateliness which 
were his, and for which he had been praised all 
through his existence. He forgot himself in high 
aims, which are greater than things seen, no mat¬ 
ter how fine soever. 

We made a very happy family group as we 
gladly followed and looked upon him when he 
took ship to start for the Liverpool Consulate; 
and of this journey and the new experiences which 
ensued my mother writes to Dr. Peabody as fol¬ 
lows : —• 

Steamer Niagara, Atlantic Ocean, 
July 7, 1S53. 

My dearest Father, — It is early morning. 
Wrapped in furs and blanket shawl, in the sun 
and close against the vast scarlet cylinder of 
scalding hot steam, I have seated myself to greet 
you from Halifax, where we shall arrive to-night. 
I was glad to leave the sight of you while you 
were talking with Mr. Fields, whose cheerful face 
(and words, no doubt) caused you to smile. I 
218 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

was so glad to leave you smiling happily. Then 
came the cannonade, which was very long. And 
why do you suppose it was so long ? Mr. Tick- 
nor says that always they give a salute of two 
guns ; but that yesterday so many were thundered 
off because Mr. Hawthorne, the distinguished 
United States Consul and author, was leaving 
the shore, and honoring her Majesty’s steamship 
with his presence. While they were stabbing me 
with their noise I was ignorant of this. Per¬ 
haps my wifely pride would have enabled me to 
bear it better if I had known that the steamer 
were trembling with honor rendered to my hus¬ 
band. After this we were quiet enough, for we 
were moving magically over a sea like a vast pearl, 
almost white with peace. I never saw anything so 
fair and lovely as the whole aspect of the mighty 
ocean. Off on the horizon a celestial blue seemed 
to meet the sky. Julian sat absorbed. He did 
not turn his head, but gazed and gazed on this, to 
him, new and wondrous picture. Seeing a point 
of land running out, he said, “ That, I suppose, is 
the end of America 1 I do not think America 
reaches very far! ” I managed to change his 
beaver and plume for his great straw Fayal hat, 
but he would not turn his head for it. It was ex¬ 
cessively hot. An awning was spread at the stern, 
and then it was very comfortable. I heard that 
the British minister was on board, and I searched 
round to find him out. I decided upon a fine- 
looking elderly gentleman who was asleep near 
the helm-house. Afterwards the mail-agent came 
219 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

to Mr. Hawthorne and said the minister wished 
to make his acquaintance ; and behold, here was 
my minister, a stately, handsome person, with an 
air noble and of great simplicity and charm of 
manner. Mr. Hawthorne introduced me, but I 
had no conversation then. Later, I had a very 
delightful interview. . . . Near by stood a gentle¬ 
man whom I supposed his attache ; and with him 
I had a very long and interesting conversation. 
We had a nice talk about art and Rome, and 
America and England, and architecture. I do 
not yet know' his name, but only that his brother 
was joint executor with Sir Robert Peel on the 
estate of Hadley, the artist. This unknown told 
me that the minister was an exquisite amateur 
artist, and his portfolio was full of the finest 
sketches. This accounted for the serene expres¬ 
sion of his eyes, that rest contemplatively upon 
all objects. Mr. Silsbee looks so thin and pale 
that I fear for him ; but I will take good care of 
him. At table, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne have 
the seats of honor, on either hand of the captain. 
He is a very remarkable man. The minister told 
me that he sailed with him five years ago, when 
the captain was very young, and he was then as¬ 
tonished at his skill and power of command ; that 
the captains of these great English steamers are 
picked men, trained in the navy, and eminent 
for ability and accomplishment, and that Captain 
Leitch is remarkable among the best. It was 
good to see his assured military air, as he walked 
back and forth while we moved out of the beauti- 
220 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

ful harbor. He made motions with his hand with 
such an air of majesty and conscious power. His 
smile is charming, and his voice fine. The enun¬ 
ciation of Mr. Crampton, the minister, is also 
wonderfully fine. Mr. Crampton says that these 
steamers have run for seventeen years, and that 
not one accident has happened, and not a man 
been lost, except that once a steamer was lost in 
a fog, but all the passengers and crew were safely 
got off. Una enjoys herself very much, and reads 
the “ Tanglewood Tales,” and walks and races on 
the upper deck with Julian, this fine cold morn¬ 
ing. It is glorious, glorious, — this blue surround¬ 
ing sea, and no land. 

Your affectionate daughter, 

Sophia. 

Waterloo House, Liverpool, 
July 17, Sunday morning. 

Here we are, dear father, in England; and I 
cannot realize it, because a moment ago we were 
in Boston Harbor, and how can I be three thou¬ 
sand miles afar ? If we had had more difficulty, 
storms, and danger, I could realize it better; but 
it seems like a pleasure excursion on a lake. I 
sit in a parlor, with one great, broad window from 
ceiling to floor, a casement opening upon a bal¬ 
cony, which commands a handsome street. It 
does not look like Boston, and, Mr. Hawthorne 
says, not like New York, but — like Liverpool. 
People are going to church, and the bells are 
chiming in a pleasant jangle. Every gentleman 
221 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

has an umbrella under his arm; for it is bright 
sunshine one moment, and a merry little shower 
the next. 

I spoke in my note from Halifax of Mr. Cramp- 
ton, and a gentleman whom I thought his attachd. 
Mr. Crampton we lost at Halifax, but the sup¬ 
posed attach^ remained; and I was glad, for he 
was the most interesting person in the steamer. 
We in vain tried to discover his name, but at last 
found it to be Field Talfourd, brother of Sir 
Thomas Talfourd, author of “Ion.” I had very 
charming conversations with him. He was a per¬ 
fect gentleman, with an ease of manner so fasci¬ 
nating and rare, showing high breeding, and a 
voice rich and full. Whenever he spoke, his 
words came out clear from the surrounding bab¬ 
ble and all the noise of the ship, so that I could 
always tell where he was. He is one of the 
primitive men, in contradistinction to the deriv¬ 
ative (as Sarah Clarke once divided people). He 
seemed never at a loss on any subject soever; 
and when the passengers were trying feats of 
skill and physical prowess to pass the time, I saw 
Mr. Talfourd exhibit marvelous power as a gym¬ 
nast in performing a feat which no one else would 
even attempt. His education was all-sided, body 
and mind, apparently; and, with all, this charm 
of gentlemanliness, — not very often met with in 
America. It seems to require more leisure and 
a deeper culture than we Americans have yet, to 
produce such a lovely flower. . . . 

July 19. We all have colds now, except Mr. 

222 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

Hawthorne, with whom earth's maladies have no¬ 
thing to do. Julian and Una are homesick for 
broad fields and hilltops. Julian, in this narrow, 
high room, is very much like an eagle crowded 
into a canary-bird's cage! They shall go to 
Prince’s Park as soon as I can find the way; and 
there they will see water and green grass and 
trees. They think of the dear Wayside with 
despair. As soon as possible we shall go into 
the country. Yesterday the waning consul, Mr. 
Crittendon, called. Mr. Hawthorne likes him 
much. Mr. Silsbee and Mr. Wight called. The 
latter talked a great deal of transcendental phi¬ 
losophy to me, on the Niagara; and I was some¬ 
times tempted to fling him to the fishes, to baptize 
him in realities. 

July 21. An Oxford graduate, who went to 
see Mr. Hawthorne in Concord, called to see him, 
and brought his father, a fine-looking gentleman. 
Their name is Bright. Mary Herne thought the 
son was Eustace Bright himself! To-day the 
father came to invite us all out to West Derby to 
tea on Saturday, and the son is coming for us. 
There the children will see swans and gardens 
and green grass, and they are in raptures. Young 
Henry Bright is a very enthusiastic young gentle¬ 
man, full of life and emotion; and he very politely^ 
brought me from his gardens a radiant bouquet 
of flowers, among which the heliotrope and moss- 
roses and all other roses and mignonette make 
delicious fragrance. Yesterday Miss Lynch sent 
me a bunch of moss-rose buds — nine / Just 
223 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

think of seeing together nine moss-rose buds! 
Henry Bright brought the “Westminster Re¬ 
view” to Mr. Hawthorne, and said he should 
bring him all the new books. Mrs. Train called 
to see me before she went to town [London], and 
Mr. Hawthorne and I went back with her to the 
Adelphi, and walked on to see a very magnificent 
stone building, called St. George’s Hall. It is 
not quite finished; and as far as the mist would 
allow me to see, it was sumptuous. ... We have 
strawberries as large as small peaches, one being 
quite a feast, and fine raspberries. The head of 
the Waterloo House, Mr. Lynn, is a venerable- 
looking person, resembling one’s idea of an an¬ 
cient duke, — dressing with elaborate elegance, 
and with the finest ruffled bosoms. Out of pecu¬ 
liar respect to the Consul of the United States, 
he comes in at the serving of the soup, and holds 
each plate while I pour the soup, and then, with 
great state, presents it to the waiter to place be¬ 
fore each person. After this ceremony he retires 
with a respectful obeisance. This homage di¬ 
verts Mr. Hawthorne so much that I am afraid 
he will smile some day. The gravity of the ser¬ 
vants is imperturbable. One, Mr. Hawthorne calls 
our Methodist preacher. The service is abso¬ 
lutely perfect. Your affectionate child, 

Sophia. 

The Brights, especially Henry Bright, appear 
frequently in the “ Note-Books,” and their names 
occur very often in my mother’s letters. The 
224 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

young Oxford graduate I remember most dis¬ 
tinctly. He was thin, and so tall that he waved 
like a reed, and so shining-eyed that his eyes 
seemed like icebergs ; they were very prominent. 
His nose was one of your English masterpieces, — 
a mountainous range of aristocratic formation; 
and his far-sweeping eyebrows of delicate brown, 
his red, red lips and white doglike teeth, and his 
deeply cleft British chin were a source of fathom¬ 
less study. In England a man can be extraordi¬ 
narily ordinary and material; but the men of cul¬ 
ture are, as a rule, remarkably forcible in unique 
and deep-cut characteristics, both of face and of 
mind, with a prevailing freedom from self-analy¬ 
sis — except privately, no doubt. 

The strong features of Henry Bright, at any 
rate, made a total of ravishing refinement. He 
and my father would sit on opposite sides of the 
fire; Mr. Bright with a staring, frosty gaze di¬ 
rected unmeltingly at the sunny glow of the coals 
as he talked, his slender long fingers propping 
up his charming head (over which his delicately 
brown hair fell in close-gliding waves) as he leaned 
on the arm of his easy-chair. Sometimes he held 
a book of Tennyson’s poetry to his near-sighted, 
prominent eyes, as closely as two materials could 
remain and not blend into one. He recited “ The 
Brook ” in a fine fury of appreciation, and with a 
sure movement that suggested well the down¬ 
tumbling of the frolicking element, with its under¬ 
current of sympathizing pathos, the life-blood of 
the stream. “ For men may come, and men may 
225 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

go, but I go on for ever /” rang in my empty lit¬ 
tle head for years, and summed up, as I guessed, 
all of Egyptian wisdom and spiritual perpetuity 
in a single suggestive fact. Mr. Bright had a way 
of laughing that I could never cease to enjoy, 
even in the faint echo of retrospect. It always 
ended in a whispered snort from the great moun¬ 
tain range of his nose. He laughed often, at his 
own and my father’s remarks, and at the close of 
the tumbling diction of “ The Brook; ” and he 
therefore frequently snorted in this sweeping-of- 
the-wind fashion. I listened, spellbound. He 
also very gently and breezily expressed his touched 
sensibility, after some recitation of his of rare lines 
from other poems, but in the same odd manner. 
My father stirred this beloved friend with judi¬ 
cious, thought-developing opposition of opinion 
concerning all sorts of polite subjects, but princi¬ 
pally, when I overheard, concerning the respec¬ 
tive worth of writers. The small volume of 
Tennyson which Mr. Bright held in his two hands 
caressingly, with that Anglo-literary filliping of 
the leaves which is so great a compliment to any 
book, contained for him a large share of Great 
Britain’s greatness. His brave heart beat for 
Tennyson ; I think my father’s did not, though his 
head applauded. My mother, for her part, was 
entranced by the goldsmith’s work of the noble 
poet, and by the gems enclasped in its perfection 
of formative art, — perfections within the pale of 
convention and fashion and romantic beauty which 
make lovely Tennyson’s baronial domain. Henry 
226 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

Bright wrote verses, too; and he was beginning 
to be successful in a certain profound interest 
which customarily absorbs young men of genuine 
feeling who are not yet married ; and therefore it 
was worth while to stir the young lover up, and 
hear what he could say for “ The Princess ” and 
“ The Lord of Burleigh.” My mother, in a letter 
written six months after we had reached England, 
and when he was established as a household 
friend, draws a graphic picture of his lively per¬ 
sonality : — 

Rock Park, December 8. 

. . . We had a charming visit from Henry 
Bright a fortnight ago. He stayed all night, and 
he talks — I was going to say, like a storm ; but 
it is more like a breeze, for he is very gentle. He 
is extremely interesting, sincere, earnest, indepen¬ 
dent, warm and generous hearted; not at all dog¬ 
matic ; full of questions, and with ready answers. 
He is highly cultivated, and writes for the “West¬ 
minster.” . . . Eustace Bright, as described in 
“ The Wonder-Book,” is so much like him in cer¬ 
tain things that it is really curious : “ Slender, 
pale, yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and ac¬ 
tive as if he had wings to his shoes.” He is also 
near-sighted, though he does not wear spectacles. 
His eyes are large, bright, and prominent, rather, 
indicating great facility of language, which he has. 
He is an Oxford scholar, and has decided literary 
tastes. He is delicately strung, and is as trans¬ 
parent-minded and pure-hearted as a child, with 
great enthusiasm and earnestness of character; 

227 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and, though a Liberal, very loyal to his Queen 
and very admiring of the aristocracy. This comes 
partly by blood, as his mother has noble blood in 
her veins from various directions, even the Percys 
and Stanleys, and is therefore a native aristocrat. 
He enjoyed his visit to America extremely, and 
says Boston is the Mecca of English Unitarians, 
and Dr. Channing is their patron saint. I like to 
talk with him : he can really converse. He goes 
to the Consulate a good deal, for he evidently 
loves Mr. Hawthorne dearly. I wish my husband 
could always have visitors so agreeable. The 
other day a woman went to him about a case in 
Chancery. Mr. Hawthorne thought she was 
crazy ; and I believe all people are who have a 
suit in Chancery. 

A few weeks after the date of the last letters, 
a visit was paid to the Brights at their family 
home, and my mother thus writes of it : — 

Rock Park, February 16, 1854. 

I returned yesterday from a visit to Sandheys, 
the domain of Mr. Bright. He has been urging 
all winter that we should go and dine and stay 
all night, and I have refused, till last week Mrs. 
Bright wrote a cordial note and invited Mr. 
Hawthorne and Una and me to go and meet Mr. 
and Mrs. James Martineau, and stay two nights. 
It seemed not possible to refuse without being 
uncivil, though I did not like to leave Julian and 
baby so long. Mr. Hawthorne, however, intended 
228 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

to stay but one night, and the next morning 
would come home and see Julian and Rose, and 
take Julian to spend the day at the Consulate 
with him ; and we left King, that excellent butler, 
in the house. It was really safe enough ; only, 
you know, mothers have, perhaps, unfounded 
alarms. We took a carriage at Pier-head (Una 
and I) and drove to the Consulate, where we 
took up Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Bright. . . . We 
arrived at about six o'clock, and Una and I had to 
dress for dinner after our arrival. It was a party 
of twelve. . . . Mrs. H. [aunt of Henry Bright] 
is a fashionable lady, who resides in London in 
season, and out of season at Norris Green. She 
was dressed in crimson velvet, with pearls and 
diamonds, and her neck and arms were very fair 
and pretty. 

She was resolved to tease Mr. Hawthorne into 
consenting to go to her ball. Just imagine him 
in the clutches of a lady of fashion ! But he 
always behaves so superbly under the most trying 
circumstances, that I was exceedingly proud of 
him while I pitied him. . . . Finally she could 
not tell whether he would accept or not, and said 
she would leave the matter to me, with confidence 
that I would prevail. . . . Just after luncheon on 
Tuesday, Mrs. Bright’s brother came to tell her 
that the Great Britain had come, and she would 
not believe it, because her husband had not tele¬ 
graphed her about it, . . . that largest ship in 
the world, belonging to Mr. Bright. It had come 
back from Australia. . . . Mr. Martineau has a 
229 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

kind of apostolic dignity about him. . . . But the 
full dress of the gentlemen now requiring a white 
cravat and tie, they all looked ministerial to me, 
except the United States Consul, who will hold 
on to black satin, let the etiquette be what it may. 
He does not choose to do as the Romans do while 
in Rome. At least, he is not yet broken in. I 
suppose it is useless for me to say that he was 
by far the handsomest person present, and might 
have been taken for the king of them all. The 
chandelier that poured floods of light down on the 
heads beneath was very becoming to him ; for the 
more light there is, the better he looks always. 
The dinner was exceedingly elegant, and the ser¬ 
vice as beautiful as silver, finest porcelain, and 
crystal could make it. And one of the attendants, 
the coachman, diverted me very much by the air 
with which he carried off his black satin breeches, 
white silk long hose, scarlet vest buttoned up with 
gold, and the antique-cut coat embroidered with 
silver. Not the autocrat of all the Russias feels 
grander than these livery servants. The butler, 
who is really above the livery servants in position, 
looked meek in his black suit and white vest and 
cravat, though he had a right to look down on the 
varlet in small-clothes. This last, however, was 
much the most imposing in figure, and fair round 
red cheeks, and splendid shining black hair. Dear 
me, what is man! At the sound of a bell, when 
the dessert was put upon the table, the children 
came in. They never dine with mamma and 
papa, . . . and all troop in at dessert, looking so 
230 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

pretty, in full dress, . . . thin white muslin or 
tulle, with short sleeves and low necks, and long 
streaming sashes. I found the next day that it 
was just the same when there was no great party 
at dinner. Little S. looked funny in his white 
vest and muslin cravat, — like a picture of the old 
regime. In the evening we had music, weaving 
itself into the conversation. 

Mrs. Bright is ... a person of delicate and 
fine taste ; . . . she has eight children, but in her 
face one does not find wearing care. ... It is 
a face of great sensibility. ... Her smile breaks 
out like real sunshine, revealing a happy and sat¬ 
isfied spirit, a fresh and unworn nature. Her 
children seem to regard her as a precious treasure. 
Her husband, with a white head and perfectly 
Eastern face, is exceedingly pleasant; and when 
he comes home to dinner he goes to his wife and 
takes her hand, as if he had been gone many 
months, and asks her particularly how it is with 
her, in a tender and at the same time playful way, 
which causes a great deal of sunshine. Then he 
runs upstairs to dress, and comes back in an in¬ 
credibly short time, as nice as a new pin, and 
overflowing with the kindest hospitality. It is 
such a pretty scene: the elegant drawing-room, 
the recess a bow window of great size, filled with 
such large and clear plate glass that it seems 
wide open, looking out upon the verdant lawn and 
rich green—evergreen— shrubbery ; two superb 
cranes, with stately crests, walking about with 
proud steps, or with outspread wings half flying, 
231 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and uttering a short, sharp cry; oval and circular 
plots of ground surrounded now with snowdrops, 
about twice as large as those we have in America. 
Everything is lovely outside. Inside, innumerable 
gems of art and mechanism cover the tables. . . . 
In the evening . . . the group of airily dressed 
children; the tender mother in her rich brocade 
and lace mantle; the happy father ; the agreeable 
governess (Miss Cumberland is a remarkably ac¬ 
complished person, and has been with the family 
fifteen years); the music, talk, and aesthetic tea, — 
it is a charming picture. . . . The grave butler 
brings in a tray with cups and saucers and an urn, 
and leaves the room. H. makes tea, pours it out, 
and takes it to each person, with a little morsel 
of spread bread. S. and A. look about for empty 
cups, and return them to the tray. There is no 
fuss ; it is all en famille ; and the tray is borne off 
again by the butler, stepping with noiseless feet. 
There is no noise at any time anywhere in the 
house, except the angry squall of the cockatoo, who 
gets into a violent rage once in a while with some 
invisible foe, and tears his cage, and erects the long 
feathers on his head like so many swords drawn 
out of their scabbards. . . . The Brights treated 
me in the sweetest way, as if they had always 
known me, and I felt quite at home. H. is to 
go to her aunt’s fancy ball as a mermaid ; and on 
Tuesday I helped sprinkle her sea-green veil with 
pearls. 

This family is very charming. Mrs. Bright is 
the lady of ladies ; her children are all clever (in 
232 


THE LIVERPOOL CONSULATE 

an English sense), and one son a prodigy. . . . 
They are all good as well as clever; well edu¬ 
cated, accomplished, and most entirely united. It 
is all peace and love and happiness there, and I 
cannot discover where the shadow is. Health, 
wealth, cultivation, and all the Christian graces 
and virtues — I cannot see the trail of the ser¬ 
pent anywhere in that Paradise. 

. . . Mrs. Bright and I had some nice little 
talks. She told me elaborately how she admired 
and loved Mr. Hawthorne’s books; how she had 
found expressed in them what she had found no¬ 
where else; with what rapture one of her sisters 
read, re-read, and read again “The Wonder-Book;” 
. . . how Mrs. H. thought him peerless ; and so 
on. There is not the least extravagance about 
Mrs. Bright, but remarkable sobriety; and so 
what she said had double force. We talked . . . 
while we sprinkled pearls over the mermaid’s sea- 
green veil. On Wednesday the sun shone! If 
you lived here [in or near Liverpool] you would 
hardly credit such a phenomenon. 

233 


CHAPTER IX 


ENGLISH DAYS: I 

In order to give a full idea of Henry Bright 
and his home, I have anticipated dates some¬ 
what, but at this point will go back a little to 
the summer of our arrival in England, since the 
atmosphere which surrounded Hawthorne and the 
aspect of typical personalities which he enjoyed 
are thus easily caught. 

August 5,1853. 

. . . We have been so hospitably received that 
very little clear leisure has been left for my own 
private use. . . . The children have suffered very 
much from confinement within doors and bad air 
without, and almost “ everduring ” rain. We find 
it will not do to remain in the city any longer, 
and to-morrow we go across the Mersey to Rock- 
ferry, a fine watering-place, twenty minutes off 
by steam, where the air is pure and healthy. 

We had a call from a certain Mrs. R. S. Ely 
and her mamma. She said she herself was an 
American. On the afternoon of the same day 
we received a formal invitation from this lady for 
a dinner-party. But Mr. Hawthorne was engaged 
for that day to dine with Mr. Crittendon. As 
she was a very fine lady, and resides in a very 
aristocratic street, I was glad to be obliged to 
234 


ENGLISH DAYS 


refuse, because my brocade was not yet appointed, 
and I could wear nothing less in state. At the 
Waterloo we received a call from Mrs. William 
Rathbone and her daughter, Mrs. Thom. It was 
a sister-in-law, Mrs. Richard Rathbone, who wrote 
that exquisite book, " The Diary of Lady Wil¬ 
loughby.” She resides in London. Mr. William 
Rathbone is a millionaire. His wife is a cordial 
and excellent lady, who seemed to take us right 
into her heart, just as the Brights did. . . . We 
have been to make our promised call at Sand- 
heys. Before we drove there, Mr. Bright took us 
to Norris Green, the estate of his uncle. How 
can I convey to you an adequate idea of it ? I 
do not know what we are to do with the regal 
paradises of England if I cannot cope with this. 

. . . Here in all directions spread out actual vel¬ 
vet lawns, upon which when I trod I seemed to 
sink into a downy enchantment; and these lawns 
were of such a tint, of the most delicate pea-green, 
with a lustre upon it! . . . 

Evening. I have been interrupted all day, re¬ 
ceiving and making calls. Mr. Hawthorne has 
made his maiden speech, and followed it by 
another to-day, when he received the Chamber 
of Commerce in Mrs. Blodget’s great drawing¬ 
room. 

Mrs. William Rathbone sent her carriage to 
take us to Green Bank. The floors of the halls 
are almost invariably pavements of stone, some¬ 
times in colored mosaic. ... By and by came Mr. 
Rathbone, — a very animated, upright, facetious 

235 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

old gentleman, who seems to enjoy life and his 
millions quite serenely. He is a person of great 
energy, and full of benevolence, and the foun¬ 
tain of many of the great charities of Liverpool. 
Then came his son, and then a pretty lady, Miss 
Stuart; remarkably pretty she was. We were 
summoned to tea by what I at first thought was 
a distant band of music; but I believe it was an 
East Indian gong, merely stirred into a delicate 
melody. Tea was at one end of the table, and 
coffee at the other; and old Mr. Rathbone pre¬ 
sided at the coffee, and Mrs. Thom at the tea. 
The house was hung with pictures from ceiling 
to floor, every room I entered. In walking all 
round the grounds before tea, we came upon a 
fine view of the Welsh mountains over the sunny 
slopes; for it proved the loveliest afternoon, 
though in the morning it rained straight down. 
Mrs. Thom spoke to me with great fervor of “ The 
Scarlet Letter.” She said that no book ever 
produced so powerful an effect upon her. She 
was obliged to put it away when half through, 
to quiet the tumultuous excitement it caused in 
her. She said she felt as if each word in it was 
the only word that ought to be used, and the 
wholeness, the unity, the perfection of art amazed 
her. . . . 

The Chamber of Commerce wished to pay their 
respects to Mr. Hawthorne; but Mr. Hawthorne 
could not receive a cloud of gentlemen at our 
parlor there, unless they had all “ stood upon their 
dignity,” as the witty Miss Lynch suggested that 
236 


ENGLISH DAYS 


Mr. Hawthorne should. The President of the 
Chamber was a Mr. Barber, and, behold, when we 
came out to Rockferry he called again, and invited 
us to dine at Poulton Hall, his country-seat at 
Bebbington, on this side of the Mersey, where he 
resides with his two maiden sisters. He came for 
us in his beautiful carriage, — a chariot it was, 
with a coachman as straight as a lightning-rod, — 
and off we bowled to Poulton Hall. [My mother’s 
inexperience concerning splendid effects in luxu¬ 
rious life led her to look upon them in a naive, 
though perfectly composed manner. One is re¬ 
minded of the New Adam and Eve, and one is 
glad that the patient objects of time-honored 
beauty had found surprise at last.] It is four 
hundred years old; and there we came upon un¬ 
spoiled nature, as well as elaborate art. It is an 
enchanting spot, with a lawn shaded by ancient 
oaks and other forest trees; but green fields 
beyond and around that had never been trimmed 
and repressed into thick velvet. The Hall had 
belonged to the Greens, and the history of it is 
full of ghost stories and awful tragedies. We 
entered a hall, and by the ancient oaken staircase 
reposed upon the carpet a fox, in a fine attitude, 
with erect head and brilliant eyes, — really a 
splendid specimen of a creature. I was surprised 
at the quiet manner in which he reposed, undis¬ 
turbed by our entrance; but I was much more 
astonished to find it was a dead fox stuffed. I 
could scarcely believe it after I was told. Mr. 
Barber is a lover of sport, and is going with his 
237 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

family to-morrow to Scotland to hunt grouse. He 
says that at this season the hills of Scotland are 
gorgeous with heath flowers, like a carpet of rich 
dyes. We were ushered into the drawing-room, 
which looked more like a brilliant apartment in 
Versailles than what I had expected to see. The 
panels were richly gilt, with mirrors in the centre, 
and hangings of gilded paper; and the broad 
windows were hung with golden-colored damask ; 
the furniture was all of the same hue ; with a 
carpet of superb flowers; and vases of living 
flowers standing everywhere ; and a chandelier of 
diamonds (as to indefatigable and vivid shining), 
and candlesticks of the same, — not the long 
prisms, like those on Mary’s astral, but a network 
of crystals diamond-cut. The two ladies were in 
embroidered white muslin dresses over rose-colored 
silk, and black velvet jackets, basque-shaped, with 
a dozen bracelets on their arms, which were bare, 
with flowing sleeves. They received us with that 
whole-hearted cordiality we meet everywhere. 
They told us some terrible stories about the 
haunted house, and about a lady who was impri¬ 
soned and tortured in one of the attic chambers 
on account of her faith, and how she resisted to 
the end, and was starved to death. The room 
bore the name of the “Martyr’s Chamber.” 
[“ Dr. Grimshawe’s Secret ” refers to this man¬ 
sion.] We went up there, and saw the window in 
the roof, — so high that the wretched lady could 
not look out; and the door of solid oak, which was 
ruthlessly barred. We saw the spot where one 
238 


ENGLISH DAYS 


of the gentlemen of the former family cut his 
throat, and was found dead; and Miss Marianne 
said children had been murdered in the house, 
and uneasy spirits revisited the “ glimpses of the 
moon.” We went all over the house, in which 
are twenty-five sleeping apartments. One room 
contains a library in black letter, but that we could 
only peep at through a great keyhole, because it 
was barred and padlocked. I think Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne would like to examine that. The ladies 
said that, if we wished to go to church, we could 
tell the beadle of the old Bebbington church to 
guide us to their pew. We passed this venerable 
church on our way. Its tower is very fine, and 
has ivy and golden flowers far up near its summit, 
and is built of reddish stone. Both ladies spoke 
of “The Scarlet Letter” with admiration and 
wonder. They said it had the loftiest moral of 
any book they had ever read. , . . On Friday, Mr. 
Hawthorne dined with his worship the Mayor, 
the Judges, the Grand Jury, the leading members 
of the bar, and some other gentlemen, at the 
Town Hall. Mr. Hawthorne said the room was 
the most stately and handsomest he ever saw. 
The city plate was superb, and the city livery of 
the footmen was very splendid, and the footmen 
themselves very handsome. His worship wore 
his robes of state, as did the worshipful Judges, 
with their wigs. Speeches were made, and Mr. 
Hawthorne made his third speech ! Oh, how I 
wish I could have heard it ! . . . This morning 
the ferry steamers brought over two or three thou- 
239 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

sand children — boys and girls of the Industrial 
School — to have a good time. I hope they are 
kindly treated ; but it makes me shudder, and 
actually weep, to look upon the assemblage of 
young creatures, not one of them able to call upon 
a mother ; each with a distinct character, each 
with a human heart. Poor little motherless chil¬ 
dren ! 

On Sunday afternoon we took a delightful 
walk. I think we made a circuit of five miles, if 
not more. We went over Dacre Hill, from which 
a sweet, tranquil landscape is seen ; and onwards, 
down a lovely lane. These lanes are all bordered 
with hedges of hawthorn, ivy, and holly; and one 
of them abounded in lovely harebells, with stems 
so delicate that I found it very difficult to see and 
seize them, so as to pluck them. These hedges 
had not walls before them, and were not too high, 
so that we could look over into the fields. A 
well-worn path led from the harebell lane along 
the edge of a field ; and very convenient stone 
steps led over the walls. When we got to the 
street, it seemed a very ancient place. This re¬ 
gion was once the kingdom of Mercia. The road 
seemed hewn out of stone. I cannot tell you how 
much the cottages seemed like the first dwellings 
that ever were made. . . . When I called on Mrs. 
Squarey, we found her a pleasant lady, and Una 
thought she looked like Miss Maria Mitchell, and 
therefore Una liked her. Our call was extremely 
agreeable. Mr. Hawthorne insists upon calling 
her Mrs. Roundey. When Mr. Hawthorne came 
240 


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home this afternoon, he said he met on the oth« 
side the children of the Industrial School jusl 
landed. He saw them face to face, and he said 
their faces were uncomely to the last degree. He 
said he never imagined such faces, — so irredeem¬ 
ably stupid and homely. I do not think I have 
realized the sin of the Old World in any way so 
much as in a few faces I saw in Liverpool. It 
made me shiver and contract to look at them, — 
so haggard, so without hope or faith, or any sign 
of humanity. . . . Mr. Hawthorne had a letter 
from Kossuth to-day. 

August 2d 

My dear Father, — I am just as stupid as an 
owl at noonday, but it is a shame that a steamer 
should go without a letter from me to you, and it 
shall not. Mr. Hawthorne wishes to escape from 
too constant invitations to dinner in Liverpool, and 
by living in Rockferry will always have a good 
excuse for refusing when there is reall) no rea¬ 
son or rhyme in accepting, for the last steamer 
leaves Liverpool at ten in the evening ; and I 
shall have a fair cause for keeping out of all com¬ 
pany which I do not very much covet. I have no 
particular fancy for Liverpool society, except the 
Rathbones’ and Brights’. 

Mr. Hawthorne was obliged the other day to 
bury an American captain who died at his board¬ 
ing-house. He paid for the funeral out of his 
private purse, though I believe he expects some 
brother captains will subscribe a part of the 
amount. Mr. Hawthorne was the whole funeral, 
241 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and in one of those plumed carriages he followed 
the friendless captain. The children are delighted 
with the aspect of things, and with the house, 
which they think very stately and elegant. I have 
been racing round the lawn and shrubberies with 
them. The flowers rejoice. The scarlet gerani¬ 
ums, the crimson and rose-colored fuchsias, the 
deep garnet carnations, the roses, and the enor¬ 
mous variously colored pansies (pensees) look radi¬ 
antly in the sun. There are many other kinds of 
flowers besides; and the beautiful light green, 
smooth-shaven lawn is a rest to the eyes. 

There is a vast amount of latent force and 
energy here, but it takes a cannon to put it in 
action. Of course there are exceptions enough. 
Our friend Henry Bright is a slender, diaphanous 
young gentleman, of a nervous temperament, 
with no beer or roast beef apparent in his mind or 
person ; and there are doubtless many like him. 
The English are unfortunate in noses. Their 
noses are unspiritual, thick at the end; and there 
is an expression about the mouth of enormous 
self-complacency. The specimens of this amount 
to superb sometimes, when the curves of the 
mouth are Apollo-like. Unfortunately there is 
too often a deep stain of wine in the cheeks, or 
a general suffusion; and unless the face is quite 
pale, one can find no other hue, — no healthy 
bloom either in man or woman. 

A young American was found in a deranged 
state, and taken before a magistrate. There was 
one of two things to do, — either to put him in 
242 


ENGLISH DAYS 


the workhouse, or pay his board at the insane 
hospital. Mr. Hawthorne, of course, chose the 
latter. It was just like him to choose it. The 
young man’s mother had lately married a second 
time, and was in Naples. When Mrs. Blodget 
came to see me, a day or two since, she exclaimed 
that she knew his mother, and that she was a 
lady of fortune. . . . 

September 30. Mr. Hawthorne and Mr. Tick- 
nor had a fine excursion to Old Chester, and were 
so occupied with it that no time was left for Eaton 
Hall. Julian has been parading round the gar¬ 
den this morning, blowing a trumpet which papa 
brought him from Chester, and dragging after him 
a portentous wooden cannon, which would not 
help to gain the smallest battle. It is actually a 
sunny day! . . . A very great joy it is to Rosebud 
to see the lovely little English robins come to pick 
up crumbs. They excite a peculiar love. They 
have great faith in man, and come close to the 
window without fear. They have told the linnets 
and thrushes of our hospitality, and the linnets 
actually come, though with dread and trembling; 
and they carry off the largest crumbs for their 
families and neighbors. The English robin is very 
dear. . . . 

Mr. Ticknor has been to see De Quincey, and 
says he is a noble old man and eloquent, and wins 
hearts in personal intercourse. His three daugh¬ 
ters, Margaret, Florence, and Emily, are also very 
attractive and cultivated, and they are all most 
impatient to see Mr. Hawthorne. . . . 

243 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

We are all going to Chester first on a Sunday, 
to attend the Cathedral service with the children. 
How very singular that this dream of mine, like 
so many other dreams, is coming true! For I 
always wished earnestly that the children might 
go to church first in a grand old cathedral, so 
that their impression of social worship might be 
commensurate with its real sublimity. And, be¬ 
hold, it will be so, — for they never yet have 
been to church. The echoes of those lofty vaults 
are scarcely ever silent, for an anthem is sung 
there every day. Afterwards we shall go on a 
week-day to examine the old town, said to be 
older than Rome itself ! 

October 5. On Saturday, the 1st, Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne went to dine at Mr. Aikens’s with the two 
sons of Burns, Colonel and Major Burns. He 
says they were gentlemanly persons, and agree¬ 
able, but not resembling their father. After 
dinner, one of them sang one of Burns’s songs, 
and again another in the drawing-room. . . . Mr. 
Fields says, “ * Tanglewood ’ is going finely. Three 
thousand were sold at once on its appearance, and 
it is still moving rapidly. The notices have been 
glorious everywhere; and they ought to be, for 
the book is one of the most delightful which your 
pen has let slip.” 

October 21. We are going to dine out this 
evening, at Mr. and Mrs. Charles Holland’s, Lis- 
card Vale. These persons Mr. Hawthorne met 
a little while ago at the house of Mr. Aikens, 
where he saw the sons of Bums. For the benefit 
244 


ENGLISH DAYS 


of cousin Mary Loring [the very beautiful and 
spirited Mrs. George B. Loring, nee Pickman], I 
will say now that my wreath is just from Paris, 
and consists of very exquisite flowers that grow 
in wreaths. Part of it is the blackberry - vine 
(strange to say), of such cunning workmanship 
that Julian says he knows the berries are good to 
eat. The blossoms, and the black and red and 
green fruit and leaves, are all equally perfect. 
Then there are little golden balls, to imitate a 
plant that grows in Ireland, — fretted gold. Small 
flowers are woven closely in, over the top of the 
head, and behind the ears the long, streaming 
vines hang in a cluster. 

October 23. At sunset the clouds cleared off 
and the sun shone, so that our drive of six miles 
to Liscard Vale was much more pleasant than 
we expected. It was rather dreary ; uncultivated 
moors and sea-nipped foliage. Finally we began 
to hasten, at a greatly accelerated pace, down, 
down, and then entered a gate. It was too dark 
to see distinctly; but, as far as I could discover, 
the land seemed formed of low hills and vales, 
with trees in thin groves; and the mouth of the 
Mersey, and Liverpool glittering with a thousand 
lights, were visible through the vistas. Mrs. 
Holland is ladylike, and therefore simple in her 
manners. Mr. Holland has the figure and air of 
an American gentleman, rather thin and pale. 
The drawing-room was beautiful. It was of very 
great size, and at one end was a window in 
semicircular form, larger than any but a church 
245 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

window. Depending from the lofty ceiling were 
several chains, in different parts of the room, 
holding vases filled with richly colored flowers 
with long vines streaming. Mr. Hawthorne as 
chief guest — there were twelve — took Mrs. 
Holland, and sat at her right hand. The table 
was very handsome; two enormous silver dish- 
covers, with the gleam of Damascus blades, put¬ 
ting out all the rest of the light. After the 
soup, these covers were removed, revealing a 
boiled turbot under one, and fried fish under 
the other. The fish was replaced by two other 
enormous dishes with shining covers ; and then 
the whole table was immediately covered with 
silver dishes; and in the centre was a tall silver 
stand holding a silver bowl of celery. It would 
be useless to try to tell you all the various dishes. 
A boiled turkey was before Mrs. Holland, and a 
roasted goose before Mr. Holland; and in the 
intermediate spaces, cutlets, fricassees, ragouts, 
tongue, chicken - pies, and many things whose 
names I did not know, and on a side-table a 
boiled round of beef as large as the dome of St. 
Peter’s. The pastry of the chicken-pie was of 
very elaborate sculpture. It was laid in a silver 
plate, an oak vine being precisely cut all round, 
and flowers and fruits moulded on the top. It 
really was a shame to spoil it. All these were 
then swept off in a very noiseless manner. Grouse 
and pheasants are always served with the sweets 
in England, and they appeared at either end of 
the table. There were napkins under the finger- 
246 


ENGLISH DAYS 


bowls, upon each of which a castle or palace was 
traced in indelible ink, and its name written be¬ 
neath. The wines were port, sherry, madeira, 
claret, hock, and champagne. I refused the five 
first, but the champagne was poured into my 
glass without any question. So now you have 
the material elements of the dinner-party. Per¬ 
haps I cannot give the spiritual so well. Mr. 
Littledale was a gentleman with a face in full 
bloom, a very white cravat coming out even with 
his chin; and within it he bridled with the unmis¬ 
takable English sense of superiority to the rest 
of mankind. He is a specimen of the indepen¬ 
dent, rich country gentleman of England. His 
conservatories were the best in the world, . . . 
and so on through all things appertaining to 
him. One could see directly that any attempt to 
convince him to the contrary would be utterly 
futile. His ears were not made to admit any 
such remarks. ... He declared that the weather 
of the last twelve months was unprecedented. 
I meekly suggested Bulwer’s testimony, but he 
scoffed at it. ... He discussed with Mrs. Holland 
the probable merits of a pudding before her, and 
concluded he would not try it. There was some¬ 
thing peremptory, petulant, and whimsical about 
him. ... He was precisely a character such as I 
have read about in English novels, and enter¬ 
tained me very much. He was evidently of the 
war party of Britain, and thought Kossuth’s last 
letter to the people of Straffan “ exceedingly 
clever.” In speaking of contested elections, he 
247 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

referred to one which cost .£100,000; and some 
one asked Mr. Hawthorne if an election ever 
cost so much as that in America. Upon this 
question, a young gentleman, a fair-haired Eg¬ 
bert, with an aristocratic face and head, observed 
that he supposed £100,000 would purchase all 
America! Was not that impertinent ? Mr. 
Hawthorne gravely replied that from the num¬ 
ber of elections it was impossible that any such 
purchasing could be made. Opposite me sat a 
Mrs. Mann; — an old lady with an extraordi¬ 
nary cap, trimmed with pink ribbon, and a mag¬ 
nificent necklace of rubies round her neck, and 
bracelets of the same. She had a very intelli¬ 
gent face. There was a Mrs. Miller, who floated 
in fine, white, embroidered muslin, with a long 
scarlet sash, and a scarlet net upon the back 
of her head, confining her dark hair in a heavy 
clump, very low. She was a very romantic, grace¬ 
ful-looking person, slender and pale and elegant; 
and I had a good deal of conversation with her. 
She is one of Mr. Hawthorne’s profound ad¬ 
mirers. . . . She smiled very brightly; but a 
look of unspeakable sadness alternated with her 
smile that expressed great suffering of some kind. 
She spoke of having been ill once, when her 
friends called her the White Lady of Avenel; and 
that is just her picture now. Her dress made her 
fairness so apparent, — the gossamer tissue, the 
bright scarlet, and raven hair and dark eyes and 
lashes. The tones of her voice were very airy 
and distant, so that I could scarcely catch her 
248 


ENGLISH DAYS 


words; and this I have observed in several Eng¬ 
lish ladies. “ Where could Zenobia have found 
her ever-fresh, rich flower ? ” asked Mrs. Holland. 
It is singular to observe how familiar and like a 
household word Mr. Hawthorne is to all cultivated 
English people. People who have not heard of 
Thackeray here, know Mr. Hawthorne. Is not 
that funny? We ladies had a very good time 
together in the drawing-room. Coffee was served 
in exquisite little china cups all flowers and gold. 

. . . Mr. Holland asked me whether Mr. Haw> 
thorne was mobbed in “ the States,” and said that 
if he should go to London it would be hard work 
for him, for he would inevitably be mobbed. He 
then remarked that he did not like “Blithe- 
dale ” so well as the other books. He spoke of 
Bulwer, and said that when he saw him he con¬ 
cluded it was better never to see an author, for 
he generally disappointed us; that Bulwer was an 
entirely made-up man in appearance, effeminate 
and finical,—flowing curls and curling musta- 
chios, and elaborate and formal manners. I told 
him I should expect just such a looking person in 
Bulwer, from reading all his first novels, so very 
inferior to “ The Caxtons ” and “ My Novel.” 


November 6. 

My dearest Father, — Last Sunday was a day 
that seemed to be dropped from heaven. I im¬ 
mediately thought that this was the Sunday for 
Chester. ... So we sent to Mr. Squarey, who 
returned word that he would meet us at the depot 
249 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

at nine. We did not pick him out from all others 
for a companion to the Cathedral, but his wife 
first requested us to go with them, and so we were, 
in a certain way, bound not to go without them. 
It was very affecting to me when I came suddenly 
upon the Cathedral. . . . Every “Amen ” was slow, 
solemn, full music, which had a wonderful effect. 
It was like the melodious assent of all nature and 
mankind to the preceding prayer, — “So be it /'* 
. . . Una and Julian, especially Julian, suffered 
much ennui during the sermon; and Una wrote 
the other day in one of her letters that “it was 
very tegeuse ” (her first attempt at spelling “ tedi¬ 
ous ”) “for there was hardly anything in it.” Ju¬ 
lian inadvertently gaped aloud, which so startled 
Mr. Hawthorne that he exclaimed, “ Good God!" 
thus making the matter much worse; but as even 
I, who sat next him, did not hear him, I presume 
that the same great spaces which took up the 
canon’s voice disposed of Mr. Hawthorne’s excla¬ 
mation. I am sorry the children were obliged to 
stay through the sermon, as it rather spoiled the 
effect of the preceding service. It would have 
been far better to have had another of David’s 
Psalms chanted. While listening to those of the 
morning lesson, I thought how marvelous it was 
that these Psalms, sung by the Jewish king and 
poet to his harp three thousand years ago, should 
now be a portion of the religious service of nearly 
all Christendom ; so many organs grandly accom¬ 
panying thousands of voices in praising God in 
his very words, as the worthiest which man has 
250 


ENGLISH DAYS 


yet uttered. And they are indeed worthy ; and 
in this stately old Cathedral with its manifold as¬ 
sociations they sounded grander, more touching, 
more eloquent than ever, borne up from the points 
of the flaming pinnacles, on solemn organ-tones, 
to God. This united worship affected me very 
deeply, it is so long since I have been to church, — 
hardly once since Una was born! You know I 
always loved to go to church, always supplying 
by my imagination what I did not find. ... I 
think that the English Church is the merest petri¬ 
faction now. It has not the fervor and unction 
of the Roman Catholic even (that is dead enough, 
and will be dead soon). The English Church is 
fat, lazy, cold, timid, and selfish. How natural that 
some strong souls, with warm hearts and the fire 
of genius in them, should go back to Romanism 
from its icy presence ! 

November 8. Yesterday afternoon was beauti¬ 
ful, and we (Una, Julian, and I) were quite rejoiced 
to find Mr. Hawthorne in the ferry-boat when we 
returned from Liverpool. It was beautiful, — up in 
the sky, I mean ; for there never was anything so 
nasty as Liverpool. Thousands of footsteps had 
stirred up the wetness and earth into such a mud- 
slush as one can have no idea of in America. It 
was necessary to look aloft into the clean heavens 
to believe any longer that mud was not eternal, 
infinite, omnipresent. ... I left you introduced 
into the Cathedral cloisters in Chester, but I sup¬ 
pose you do not wish to stay there any longer. 
We went upon the walls afterwards, as we had 
251 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

three hours upon our hands. I had a great desire 
to plant my foot in Wales, and so we crossed the 
river Dee. I stopped to look at the river Dee. 
It is a mere brook in comparison to our great 
rivers, though the Concord is no wider in some 
places. It was flowing peacefully along; and I 
remembered that Edgar the Peaceable was rowed 
in triumph by eight kings from his palace on the 
south bank to the monastery in 973. It was 
too late to walk far into the immense grounds 
of Eaton Hall, the seat of the Marquis of West¬ 
minster. He is a Norman noble. I told Mr. 
Squarey that my father was of Welsh descent, 
and he asked me why I did not fall down and 
kiss my fatherland. 

November. 

Mr. Hawthorne’s speeches are never “ reported,” 
dear father, or I would send them to you. They 
remain only in the ear of him who hears them, 
happy man that he is. 

Oh, these fogs ! If you have read “ Bleak 
House,” you have read a description of a London 
fog ; but still you could scarcely have a true im¬ 
age of it. Out of doors one feels hooded with 
fog, and cannot see his own hand. It is just as if 
one should jump into a great bag of cotton-wool, 
— not lamb’s wool, for that is a little pervious. 
Our fogs here are impervious. Mr. Ogden (the 
large-hearted western gentleman whom Elizabeth 
knows) called at the Consulate upon Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne, and Mr. Hawthorne invited him to make 
us a visit. He is overflowing with life, and seems 
252 


ENGLISH DAYS 


to have the broad prairies in him. He enter¬ 
tained me very much with an account of the Lord 
Mayor’s dinner in London, and other wonders 
he had seen. At the dinner he had a peculiarly 
pleasant, clever, and amiable group immediately 
around him of baronets. He told us about going 
with Miss Bacon to the old city of Verulam to see 
Lord Bacon’s estate and his tomb. They went 
into the vault of the church where the family is 
buried, but they could not prevail upon the beadle 
to open the brick sepulchre where Lord Bacon 
himself is supposed to be interred. The ruins of 
the castle in which Lord Bacon lived show that it 
was very rich and sumptuous ; and the very grove 
in which he used to walk and meditate and study 
stands unmolested, — a grand old grove of stately 
trees planted by man, for they are in regular rows. 
When Mr. Hawthorne came home the next even¬ 
ing, he brought me a superb bouquet of flowers, 
which he said was a parting gift to me from Mr. 
Ogden, who actually followed him to the boat with 
them. They are a bright and fragrant memory 
of that agreeable and excellent gentleman. 

From the “Westminster Review” which lies 
on the table I will extract for you one passage: 
“Few have observed mankind closely enough to 
be able to trace through all its windings the tor¬ 
tuous course of a man who, having made one false 
step, finds himself thereby compelled to leave the 
path of truth and uprightness, and seldom regains 
it. We can, however, refer to at least one living 
author who has done so; and in * The Scarlet 

253 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


Letter ’ by Hawthorne, the greatest of American 
novelists, Mr. [Wilkie] Collins might see the mode 
in which the moral lesson from examples of error 
and crime ought to be drawn. There is a tale of 
sin, and its inevitable consequences, from which 
the most pure need not turn away.” In another 
paper in the same number the reviewer speaks 
of some one who “ writes with the pure poetry of 
Nathaniel Hawthorne.” As I have entered upon 
the subject of glorification, I will continue a little. 
From London an American traveler writes to 
Mr. Hawthorne: “A great day I spent with Sir 
William Hamilton, and two blessed evenings with 
De Quincey and his daughters. In De Quincey’s 
house yours is the only portrait. They spoke 
of you with the greatest enthusiasm, and I was 
loved for even having seen you. Sir William 
Hamilton has read you with admiration, and says 
your ‘ House of the Seven Gables ’ is more pow¬ 
erful in description than ‘ The Scarlet Letter.’” 
Did I tell you once of an English lady who went 
to the Consulate to see Mr. Hawthorne, and intro¬ 
duced herself as a literary sister, and who had 
never been in Liverpool before, and desired Mr. 
Hawthorne to show her the lions, and he actually 
escorted her about ? An American lady, who 
knows this Englishwoman, sent the other day a 
bit of a note, torn off, to Mr. Hawthorne, and on 
this scrap the English lady says, “ I admire Mr. 
Hawthorne, as a man and as an author, more than 
any other human being.” 

I have diligently taken cold these four months, 
254 


ENGLISH DAYS 


and now have a hard cough. It is very noisy 
and wearying. Mr. Hawthorne does not mind 
fog, chill, or rain. He has no colds, feels perfectly 
well, and is the only Phoebus that shines in Eng¬ 
land. 

I told you in my last of Lord Dufferin’s urgent 
invitation to Mr. Hawthorne to go to his seat of 
Clandeboye, in Ireland, four or five hours from 
Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne declined, and then 
came another note. The first was quite formal, 
but this begins : — 

“ My dear Mr. Hawthorne, — ... Mrs. 
Norton [his aunt, the Honorable Mrs. Norton] 
hopes . . . that you will allow her to have the 
pleasure of receiving you at her house in Ches¬ 
terfield Street; and I trust you will always re¬ 
member that I shall esteem it an honor to be 
allowed to receive you here whenever you may 
be disposed to pay this country a visit. Believe 
me, my dear Mr. Hawthorne, 

“ Yours very truly, 

“ DUFFERIN.” 

“Clandeboye, Holywood.” 

Now have I not given you a fine feast of 
homage, — “flummery ” Mr. Hawthorne calls it ? 

To-morrow is Thanksgiving Day. We are going 
to observe it in memory of the fatherland. Mr. 
Bright will dine with us by his own invitation, 
not knowing it was a festival day with us. He 
has long been projecting a visit, and finally 
proposed coming this week. He will remain all 
night, as Sandheys is on the other side of Liver- 
255 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


pool, and his mamma does not wish him to cross 
the river [usually foggy] in the dark. 

The English people, the ladies and gentlemen 
with whom we have become acquainted, are very 
lovely and affectionate and friendly. They seem 
lifelong acquaintances. I suppose there is no 
society in the world that can quite compare to 
this. It is all stereotyped, crystallized, with the 
repose and quiet in it of an immovable condition 
of caste. There is such a simplicity, such an ease, 
such an entire cordiality, such sweetness, that it 
is really beautiful to see. It is only when looking 
•at the matter outside — or rather out of it — that 
.one can see any disadvantage or unloveliness. It 
is a deep and great question, — this about rank. 
Birth and wealth often are causes of the superior 
.cultivation and refinement that are found with 
them. In this old civilization there seems to be 
.no jealousy, no effort to alter position. . . . Pro¬ 
vided that the lowest orders could be redeemed 
from the brutal misery in which they are plunged, 
there could be a little more enjoyment in contem¬ 
plating and mingling with the higher. But it 
seems as if everything must be turned upside 
down rather than for one moment more to toler¬ 
ate such suffering, such bestiality. There have 
Ibeen one or two individual cases that went before 
tthe courts that really make it almost wicked ever 
? to smile again. ... As Mr. Hawthorne delays to 
go to London, London is beginning to come to 
him, for Mr. Holland says he must inevitably 
be mobbed in England. Two Londoners called 
256 


ENGLISH DAYS 


lately, —one a Mr. William Jerdan, about seventy 
years old, a literary man, who for fifty years has 
been familiar with the best society in London, 
and knows everybody for whom one cares to ask. 
He is a perfect mine of rich memories. He 
pleased me mightily, and made me think of Dr. 
Johnson. Rose sat on his knee, and gazed with 
unwinking, earnest eyes into his face. He said 
he never saw anything like it except the gaze of 
Talleyrand (whom he knew very well). He said 
that Talleyrand undertook to look at a man and 
not allow a man to look into him, — he always 
fixed such a glance as that upon one. Imperturb¬ 
ably, baby continued to gaze, without any smile ; 
and he kept dodging from her and making funny 
contortions, but she was not in the least moved. 
“Why,” he exclaimed, “you would be an admi¬ 
rable judge, and I should not like to be the fellow 
who would take sentence from your Lordship 
when you get on your black cap ! ” At last she 
smiled confidingly at him. “There,” he said, 
“ now I have it! She loves me, she loves me ! ” 
At eight they left us for London, intending not 
to shoot through that night, but sleep at Birming¬ 
ham, halfway. “Oh,” said Mr. Jerdan, “I make 
nothing of going out to dine an hundred miles 
and returning ! ” The gentleman with him was 
Mr. Bennoch, a patron of poets and artists, and 
as pleasant, merry, and genial as possible. He 
told Julian that, if he would go to London with 
him, he should have a pony as low as the table 
and a dog as high as the pony; but Julian would 
257 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


not, even in prospect of possessing what his heart 
desireth most. 

December 8. 

Yesterday who should come to see me but Mr. 
James Martineau and his wife ! I have the great¬ 
est admiration for him as a divine, and I do not 
know what I expected to see in the outward man. 
But I was well pleased with his aspect as I found 
it. He is not tall, and he is pale, though not 
thin, with the most perfectly simple manners and 
beautiful expression. It seemed as if he had 
always been my brother; as if I could find in 
him counselor, friend, saint, and sage; and I 
have no doubt it is so, so potent is the aroma of 
character, without a word or sign. How worse 
than folly it is to imagine that character can 
either be cried up or cried down! No veil can 
conceal, no blazonry exalt, either the good or the 
evil. A man has only to come in and sit down, 
and there he is, for better, for worse. I, at least, 
am always, as it were, hit by a person’s sphere; 
and either the music of the spheres or the contrary 
supervenes, and sometimes also nothing at all, if 
there is not much strength of character. Mr. 
Martineau did not say much; but his voice was 
very pleasant and sympathetic, and he won regard 
merely by his manner of being. Mrs. Martineau 
sat with her back to the only dim light there was, 
and I could receive no impression from her face; 
but she seemed pleasant and friendly. Mrs. Mar¬ 
tineau said she wished very much that we would 
go to her party on the 19th, which was their silver 
258 


ENGLISH DAYS 


wedding day. She said we should meet Mrs. Gas- 
kell, the author of “ Mary Barton,” “ Ruth,” and 
“ Cranford,” and several other friends. It is the 
greatest pity that we cannot go; but it would be 
madness to think of going out at night in these 
solid fogs with my cough. They live beyond 
Liverpool, in Prince’s Park. Mrs. Martineau 
showed herself perfectly well-bred by not being 
importunate. It was a delightful call; and I feel 
as if I had friends indeed and in need just from 
that one interview. Mr. Martineau said Una would 
be homesick until she had some friends of her 
own age, and that he had a daughter a little older, 
who might do for one of them. They wished to 
see Mr. Hawthorne, and came pretty near it, for 
they could not have got out of the lodge gate 
before he came home ! Was not that a shame ? 

I must tell you that there is a splendid show 
which Mr. Jerdan wants us to see at Lord Warre- 
more de Tabley’s ; it is a vast salt mine of twenty 
acres, cut into a symmetrical columned gallery! 
He says it shall be lighted up, so that we shall 
walk in a diamond corridor. Mr. Jerdan said that 
salt used to be the medium of traffic in those dis¬ 
tricts ; and I think Lord de Tabley 1 is a beauty 
for having his mines cut in the form of art, in¬ 
stead of hewed and hacked as a Vandal would 
have done. Mr. Jerdan said that on account of 
some circumstance he was called Lord de Ta¬ 
bleau for a pseudonym, and in the sense I have 

1 Mr. Hawthorne’s severe taste is annoyed by that expression, 
but I must let it go for the sake of what follows. 

259 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

heard people exclaim to a good child, “ Oh, you 
picture! ” 

In the “North British Review” this week is a 
review of Mr. Hawthorne’s three last romances. 
It gives very high praise. 

December 18. 

I went to Liverpool yesterday for a Christmas 
present for you, and got a silver pen in a pearl 
handle, which you will use for Una’s sake. While 
I was gone, Mr. Martineau and Mrs. Gaskell 
called ! I was very sorry to lose the visit. They 
left a note from the Misses Yates inviting us to 
dine to-day and stay all night, and go to Mrs. 
Martineau’s evening party to-morrow! It would 
be a charming visitation, if it were possible. Mr. 
Bright cannot find language to express the Misses 
Yates’ delightsomeness, and was wishing that we 
knew them. 

By this steamer Mr. Ticknor has sent us a 
Christmas present of a barrel of apples. I wish 
you could see Rosebud with her bright cheeks 
and laughing eyes. A lady thought her four 
years old, the other day! Julian has to-day gone 
with his father to the Consulate. Una is in the 
drawing-room reading Miss Edgeworth. Rose is 
on the back of my chair. 

On Christmas night the bells chimed in the 
dawn, beginning at twelve and continuing till 
daybreak. I wish you could hear this chiming 
of bells. It is the most joyful sound you can 
imagine, — the most hopeful, the most enlivening. 
I waked before light, and thought I heard some 
260 


ENGLISH DAYS 


ineffable music. I thought of the song of the 
angels on that blessed morn; but while listening, 
through a sudden opening in the air, or breeze 
blowing towards us, I found it was not the angels, 
but the bells of Liverpool. One day when I was 
driving through Liverpool with Una and Julian, 
these bells suddenly broke forth on the occasion 
of a marriage, and I could scarcely keep the chil¬ 
dren in the carriage. They leaped up and down, 
and Una declared she would be married in Eng¬ 
land, if only to hear the chime of the bells. The 
mummers stood at our gate on Christmas morn¬ 
ing and sang in the dawn, acting the part of the 
heavenly host. The Old Year was tolled out and 
the New Year chimed in also, and again the mum¬ 
mers sang at the gate. 

Perhaps you have heard of Miss Charlotte 
Cushman, the actress ? The summer before we 
left America, she sent a note to Mr. Hawthorne, 
requesting him to sit to a lady for his miniature, 
which she wished to take to England. Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne could not refuse, though you can imagine 
his repugnance on every account. He went and 
did penance, and was then introduced to Miss 
Cushman. He liked her for a very sensible per¬ 
son with perfectly simple manners. The other 
day he met her in Liverpool, and she told him she 
had been intending to call on me ever since she 
had been at her sister’s at Rose Hill Hall, Wool- 
ton, seven miles from Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne 
wished me to invite her to dine and pass the 
night. I invited her to dine on the 29th of De^ 
261 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

cember. She accepted and came. I found her 
tall as her famous character, Meg Merrilies, with 
a face of peculiar, square form, most amiable in 
expression, and so very untheatrical in manner 
and bearing that I should never suspect her to be 
an actress. She has left the stage now two years, 
and retires upon the fortune she has made; for 
she was a very great favorite on the English 
stage, and retired in the height of her fame. The 
children liked her prodigiously, and Rose was 
never weary of the treasures attached to her 
watch-chain. I could not recount to you the 
gems clustered there, — such as a fairy tiny gold 
palette, with all the colors arranged; a tiny easel 
with a colored landscape, quarter of an inch wide ; 
a tragic and comic mask, just big enough for a 
gnome ; a cross of the Legion of Honor ; a wal¬ 
let, opening with a spring, and disclosing com¬ 
partments just of a size for the Keeper of the 
Privy Purse of the Fairy Queen; a dagger for a 
pygmy ; two minute daguerreotypes of friends, 
each as large as a small pea, in a gold case ; an 
opera-glass ; Faith, Hope, and Charity represented 
by a golden heart and anchor, and I forget what, 
— a little harp ; I cannot remember any more. 
These were all, I think, memorials of friends. 
In the morning she sat down to Una’s beautifully 
toned piano, and sang one of Lockhart’s Spanish 
ballads, with eloquent expression, so as to make 
my blood tingle. 

Hospitality was quite frequent now in our first 
262 


ENGLISH DAYS 


English home, as many letters affirm. The de¬ 
lightful novelty to my small self of a peep at the 
glitter of little dinner-parties was as surprising to 
me as if I could have had a real consciousness of 
its contrast to all the former simplicity of my par¬ 
ents’ life. Down the damask trooped the splendid 
silver covers, entrancingly catching a hundred re¬ 
flections from candle-flame and cut-glass, and my 
own face as I hovered for a moment upon the scene 
while the butler was gliding hither and thither to 
complete his artistic arrangements. On my fa¬ 
ther’s side of the family there had been a distinct 
trait of material elegance, appearing in such evi¬ 
dences as an exquisite tea-service, brought from 
China by my grandfather, with the intricate mon¬ 
ogram and dainty shapes and decoration of a hun¬ 
dred years ago ; and in a few chairs and tables that 
could not be surpassed for graceful design and 
finish ; and so on. As for my mother’s traits of 
inborn refinement, they were marked enough, but 
she writes of herself to her sister at this time, 
“You cannot think how I cannot be in the least 
tonish, such is my indomitable simplicity of style.” 
Her opinion of herself was always humble; and I 
can testify to the distinguished figure she made as 
she wore the first ball-dress I ever detected her in. 
I was supposed to be fast asleep, and she had come 
to look at me before going out to some social func¬ 
tion, as she has told me she never failed to do when 
leaving the house for a party. Her superb brocade, 
pale-tinted, low-necked, and short-sleeved, her 
happy, airy manner, her glowing though pale face, 
263 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

her dancing eyes, her ever-hovering smile of per¬ 
fect kindness, all flashed upon me in the sudden 
light as I roused myself. I insisted upon gazing 
and admiring, yet I ended by indignantly weeping 
to find that my gentle little mother could be so 
splendid and wear so triumphant an expression. 
“ She is frightened at my fine gown ! ” my mother 
exclaimed, with a changed look of self-forgetting 
concern ; and I never lost the lesson of how much 
more beautiful her noble glance was than her tri¬ 
umphant one. A faded bill has been preserved, 
for the humor of it, from Salem days, in which it 
is recorded that for the year 1841 she ordered ten 
pairs of number two kid slippers, — which was not 
precisely economical for a young lady who needed 
to earn money by painting, and who denied herself 
a multitude of pleasures and comforts which were 
enjoyed by relatives and friends. 

In our early experience of English society, my 
mother’s suppressed fondness for the superb burst 
into fruition, and the remnants of such indulgence 
have turned up among severest humdrum for many 
years; but soon she refused to permit herself even 
momentary extravagances. To those who will 
remember duty, hosts of duties appeal, and it was 
not long before my father and mother began to 
save for their children’s future the money which 
flowed in. Miss Cushman’s vagary of an amusing 
watch-chain was exactly the sort of thing which 
they never imitated ; they smiled at it as the saucy 
tyranny over a great character of great wealth. 
My father’s rigid economy was perhaps more un 
264 


ENGLISH DAYS 


broken than my mother’s. Still, she has written, 
“ I never knew what charity meant till I knew my 
husband.” There are many records of his having 
heard clearly the teaching that home duties are 
not so necessary or loving as duty towards the 
homeless. 

Julian came home from Liverpool with papa one 
afternoon with four masks, with which we made 
merry for several days. One was the face of a 
simpleton, and that was very funny upon papa, — 
such a transformation ! A spectacled old beldame, 
looking exactly like a terrific auld wife at Lenox, 
was very diverting upon Julian, turning him into a 
gnome ; and Una was irresistible beneath the mask 
of a meaningless young miss, resembling a silly¬ 
looking doll. Julian put on another with a por¬ 
tentous nose, and then danced the schottische with 
Una in her doll’s mask. Hearing this morning 
that a gentleman had sent to some regiments ^50 
worth of postage stamps, he said he thought it 
would be better to have an arrangement for all 
the soldiers’ letters to go and come free. I do not 
know but he had better send this suggestion to 
the “ London Times.” 

March 12 

Mr. Hawthorne dined at Aigburth, one of the 
suburbs of Liverpool, with Mr. Bramley Moore r 
an M. P. Mr. Moore took an effectual way to 
secure Mr. Hawthorne, for he went one day 
himself to his office, and asked him for the very 
same evening, thus bearding the lion in his den 
265 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and clutching him. And Mrs. H., the aunt of 
Henry Bright, would not be discouraged. She 
could not get Mr. Hawthorne to go to her splen¬ 
did fancy ball, to meet Lord and Lady Sefton and 
all the aristocracy of the county . . . but wrote 
him a note telling him that if he wished for her 
forgiveness he must agree with me upon a day 
when we would go and dine with her. Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne delayed, and then she wrote me a note, ap¬ 
pointing the 16th of March for us to go and meet 
the Martineaus and Brights and remain all night. 
There was no evading this, so he is going; but I 
refused. Her husband is a mighty banker, and 
she is sister of the present Chancellor of the 
Exchequer, W. E. Gladstone, and they are nobly 
connected all round. . . . Mr. Hawthorne does 
not want to go, and especially curses the hour 
when white muslin cravats became the sine qua 
non of a gentleman’s full dress. Just think how 
reverend he must look ! I believe he would even 
rather wear a sword and cocked hat, for he de¬ 
clares a white muslin cravat the last abomination, 
the chief enormity of fashion, and that all the 
natural feelings of a man cry out against it; and 
that it is alike abhorrent to taste and to sentiment. 
To all this I reply that he looks a great deal hand¬ 
somer with white about his throat than with a 
stiff old black satin stock, which always to me 
looks like the stocks, and that it is habit only 
which makes him prefer it. . . . 

266 


ENGLISH DAYS 


March 16. 

Mr. Hawthorne has gone to West Derby to 
dine . . . and stay all night. He left me with 
a powerful anathema against all dinner-parties, 
declaring he did not believe anybody liked them, 
and therefore they were a malicious invention for 
destroying human comfort. Mr. Bramley Moore 
again seized Mr. Hawthorne in the Consulate, the 
other day, and dragged him to Aigburth to dine 
with Mr. Warren, the author of “Ten Thousand 
a Year” and “The Diary of a Physician.” Mr. 
Hawthorne liked him very well. Mr. Warren 
commenced to say something very complimentary 
to Mr. Hawthorne in a low tone, across an in¬ 
termediate gentleman, when Mr. Bramley Moore 
requested that the company might have the ben¬ 
efit of it, so Mr. Warren spoke aloud; and then 
Mr. Hawthorne had to make a speech in return! 
We expected Mr. Warren here to dine afterwards, 
but he has gone home to Hull. 

Mrs. Sanders again sent a peremptory summons 
for us all to go to London and make her a visit. 
I wish Mr. Hawthorne could leave his affairs 
and go, for she lives in Portman Square, and Mr. 
Buchanan would get us admitted everywhere. 
Mr. Sanders has been rejected by the Senate ; 
but I do not suppose he cares much, since he is 
worth a half million of dollars. 

Sir Thomas Talfourd, the author of “Ion,” 
suddenly died the other day, universally mourned. 
I believe his brother Field, who came to England 
with us, is again in America, now. I trust the 
267 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

rest of the notable men of England will live till 
I have seen them. This gentleman wished very 
much to meet Mr. Hawthorne. 

March 30. 

Mr. Hawthorne went to Norris Green and dined 

with the H-s, Martineaus, and Brights, and 

others, and stayed all night, as appointed. He 
declared that, when he looked in the glass before 
going down to dinner, he presented the appear¬ 
ance of a respectable butler, with his white cravat 
— and thought of hiring himself out. He liked Mr. 
H. ... He gives away £7000 a year in charity! 
Mrs. H. is good, too, for she goes herself and 
sees into the condition of a whole district in 
Liverpool, though a dainty lady of fashion. She 
showed Mr. Hawthorne a miniature of the famous 
Sir Kenelm Digby, who was her ancestor; and 
so through his family she is connected with the 
Percys and the Stanleys, Earls of Derby. Every¬ 
thing was in sumptuous fashion, served by gor¬ 
geous footmen. Mr. Hawthorne was chief guest. 

. . . Mrs. H. has sense, and is rather sentimental, 
too. She has no children, and had the assurance 
to tell Mr. Hawthorne she preferred chickens to 
children. 

The next day Mr. Bright invited Mr. Hawthorne 
to drive. Mr. Bright wanted to call on his 
cousin, Sir Thomas Birch. And as he was the 
nearest neighbor of the Earl of Derby, he took 
them to Knowsley, Lord Derby’s seat. At Sir 
Thomas’s, Mr. Hawthorne saw a rookery for the 
first time; and a picture of Lady Birch, his mother, 
268 



ENGLISH DAYS 


painted by Sir Thomas Lawrence, but not quite 
finished. It is said to be one of his best pictures. 
Mr. Hawthorne was disappointed in the house at 
Knowsley. It was lower than he had imagined, 
and of various eras, but so large as to be able to 
entertain an hundred guests. 

April 14, Good Friday. 

My dear Father, — This is a day of great and 
solemn fast in England; when all business is sus¬ 
pended, and no work is done in house or street; 
when there is really a mighty pause in worldly af¬ 
fairs, and all people remind themselves that Christ 
was crucified, and died for us. From early morn¬ 
ing till late evening, all churches are open and ser¬ 
vice is performed. 

I wish you could be undeceived about the income 
of this Consulate. Mr. Hawthorne now knows 
actually everything about it. ... He goes from 
us at nine, and we do not see him again till five!!! 
I only wish we could be pelted within an inch of 
our lives with a hailstorm of sovereigns, so as to 
satisfy every one’s most gorgeous hopes ; but I am 
afraid we shall have but a gentle shower, after all. 
. . . I am sorry I have had the expectation of so 
much, because I am rather disappointed to be so 
circumscribed. With my husband’s present con¬ 
stant devotion to the duties of his office, he could 
no more write a syllable than he could build a ca¬ 
thedral. . . . He never writes by candle-light. . . . 
Mr. Crittenden tells Mr. Hawthorne that he thinks 
he may save $5000 a year by economy. He him¬ 
self, living in a very quiet manner, not going into 
269 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

society, has spent $4000 a year. He thinks we 
must spend more. People will not let Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne alone, as they have Mr. Crittenden, be¬ 
cause they feel as if they had a right to him, and 
he cannot well forego their claim. “ The Scarlet 
Letter ” seems to have placed him on a pinnacle 
of fame and love here. ... It will give you plea¬ 
sure, I think, to hear that Mr. Cecil read a volume 
of “The Scarlet Letter” the other day which was 
one of the thirty-fifth thousand of one publisher. 
Is it not provoking that the author should not 
have even one penny a volume ? 

I have only room to put in the truest, warmest 
sympathy with all your efforts and trials, and the 
wish that I could lift you up out of all, and sor¬ 
row that I cannot. Mr. Hawthorne has relations 
and personal friends who look to him, I think, 
with great desires. I can demand nothing for 
mine. 

Though the great Reform Bill of Lord John 
Russell was deferred by him the other night to 
another period on account of war, yet reforms on 
every point in social life are going on here, or mov¬ 
ing to go on. Nothing seems to escape some eye 
that has suddenly opened. The Earl of Shaftes¬ 
bury is one of God’s Angels of Benefits. The 
hideous condition of the very poor and even of 
tradesmen is being demonstrated to the nation; 
a condition in which, a writer in the London 
“Athenaeum” says, “Virtue is impossible” ! 
From this most crying and worst evil, up through 
all things, sounds the trumpet of reform. 

270 


ENGLISH DAYS 


Such abuse of the good President as there is, is 
sickening. I hope those who vilify him for doing 
what he considers his duty have a quarter of 
his conscience and uprightness. He is a brave 
man. ... He wrote Mr. Hawthorne that he had 
no hope of being popular during the first part of 
his administration at least. He can be neither 
bribed, bought, nor tempted in his political course ; 
he will do what he thinks constitutional and right, 
and find content in it. ... I wish our Senators had 
as good manners as the noble lords of Parliament. 
But we are perfect savages in manners as yet, and 
have no self-control, nor reverence. The dignity 
and serenity of maturer age will, I trust, come at 
last to us. . . . 

I never dreamed of putting myself into a picture, 
because I am not handsome enough. But I will 
endeavor that you have Mr. Hawthorne and Rose¬ 
bud, some time or other. Mr. Hawthorne looks 
supremely handsome here; handsomer than any¬ 
body I see. Every other face looks coarse, com¬ 
pared ; and his air and bearing are far superior 
to those of any Englishman I have seen. The 
English say that they should suppose he were an 
Englishman —till he speaks. This is a high com¬ 
pliment from the English. They look at him as 
much as they can, covertly; as much as they can 
without being uncivil and staring , as if they wanted 
to assure themselves that he really were so won¬ 
drous handsome. He does not observe this ; but 
it is nuts to me, and / observe it. The lofty, 
sumptuous apartments become him very much. I 
271 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

always thought he was born for a palace, and he 
shows that he was. 

We have had some delightful experiences, and 
have seen some interesting people, some literary 
celebrities, and beautiful English life within jeal¬ 
ous stone walls, draped with ivy inside. We see 
why comfort is an essentially English word, and 
we understand Shakespeare and all the old poets 
properly now we are on the scene. 

272 


CHAPTER X 


ENGLISH DAYS : II 

DouCxLAS, Mona, July 18. 

My dear Father, — I little dreamed that I 
should next address you from the Isle of Man! 
Yet here we all are, with one grievous exception, 
to be sure; for Mr. Hawthorne, after fetching us 
one day, and staying the two next, went away to 
the tiresome old Consulate, so conscientious and 
devoted is he; for his clerk assured him he might 
stay a little. Yet I know that there are reasons 
of state why he should not; and therefore, though 
I am nothing less than infinitely desolate without 
him, and hate to look at anything new unless he 
is looking too, I cannot complain. But is it not 
wonderful that I am here in this remote and in¬ 
teresting and storied spot ? — the last retreat of 
the little people called fairies, the lurking-place 
of giants and enchanters. ... At Stonehenge 
we found a few rude stones for a temple. I could 
not gather into a small enough focus the wide 
glances of Julian’s great brown, searching eyes 
to make him see even what there was ; and when 
finally he comprehended that the circle of stones 
once marked out a temple, and that the Druids 
really once stood there, he curled his lip, scorn¬ 
fully exclaiming, “ Is that all ? ” and bounded off 
273 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

to pluck flowers. I think that, having heard of 
Stonehenge and a Druid temple which was built 
of stones so large that it was considered almost 
miraculous that they were moved to their places, 
he expected to see a temple touching the sky, 
perhaps. . . . Mr. Hawthorne came back the 
next Friday, much to our joy, and on Saturday 
afternoon we walked to the Nunnery with him, 
which was founded by St. Bridget. A few ruins 
remain, overgrown with old ivy vines of such 
enormous size that I think they probably hold 
the walls together. . . . Julian and Una were 
enchanted with the clear stream, and Julian was 
wild for turtles; but there are no reptiles in the 
Isle of Man. ... I kept thinking, “ And this is 
the rugged, bare, rocky isle which I dreaded to 
come to, —this soft, rich, verdant paradise! ” It 
really seems as if the giants had thrown aloft the 
bold, precipitous rocks and headlands round the 
edge of the island, to guard the sylvan solitudes 
for the fairies, whose stronghold was the Isle of 
Man. I should not have been surprised at any 
time to have seen those small people peeping out 
of the wild foxgloves, which are their favorite 
hiding-places. So poetical is the air of these 
regions that mermaids, fairies, and giants seem 
quite natural to it. In the morning of the day 
we went to the Nunnery Mr. Hawthorne took 
Julian and went to the Douglas market, which is 
held in the open air. . . . My husband said that 
living manners were so interesting and valuable 
that he would not miss the scene for even Peel 
274 


ENGLISH DAYS 


Castle. One day, when Una and I went to shop 
in Douglas, we saw in the market square a sec¬ 
ond-hand bookstall. I had been trying in vain to 
get “ Peveril of the Peak ” at the library and 
bookstores, and hoped this sales-counter might 
have it. So I looked over the books, and what 
do you think I saw ? A well-read and soiled copy 
of the handsome edition of Mr. Hawthorne’s 
“Blithedale Romance”! Yes, even in Mona. 
We have heard of some families in England who 
keep in use two copies of “ The Scarlet Letter ; ” 
but I never dreamed of finding either of these 
books here. 

Sunday was the perfectest day in our remem¬ 
brance. In the morning Mr. Hawthorne walked 
to Kirk Braddon, and the afternoon we spent on 
Douglas Head. It is quite impossible to put into 
words that afternoon. Such softness and splen¬ 
dor and freshness combined in the air; such a 
clearest sunshine; such a deep blue sea and cloud¬ 
less blue heaven ; such fragrance and such repose. 
We looked from our great height upon all the 
beauty and grandeur, and in Mr. Hawthorne’s face 
was a reflection of the incredible loveliness and 
majesty of the scene. Una was a lily, and Julian 
a magnolia. I think that for once, at least, Mr. 
Hawthorne was satisfied with weather and cir¬ 
cumstances. Towards sunset the mountains of 
Cumberland were visible, for the first time during 
our visit, on the horizon, which proved that even 
in England the air was clear that day. A pale 
purple outline of waving hills lay on the silvery 
2 75 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


sea, which, as it grew later, became opaline in 
hue .... 


July 20. 

. . . This morning, soon after ten, we summoned 
a boat, and were rowed to St. Mary’s Rock, which 
has a good beach on one side, and spent two hours 
there. There was a delicious air and bright sun¬ 
shine, and we found innumerable pretty pearl 
shells among the pebbles; and Julian bathed in 
the sea. Rosebud enjoyed it very much, and 
kept close to me all the time. I asked her why 
she kept so near mamma, and she replied, “ Oh, 
dear mamma, I cannot help it.” Once she put 
her little foot into a pool, and I had to take off 
her sock and shoe to dry them in the sun. Her 
snowy little foot and pink toes looked, on the 
rocks, like a new kind of shell, and I told her I 
was afraid a gentleman who was seeking shells 
on the other side of the island would come and 
take it for a conch shell, and put it in his pocket 
for his little children. She shouted at this ; and 
then threw back her head, with a silent laugh, 
like Leatherstocking, showing all her little pearly 
teeth, — so pretty with her rosy cheeks and 
streaming hair. I actually seem in a dream, and 
not here in bodily presence. I cannot imagine 
myself here; much less realize it. Through the 
mist Douglas looked like a vast leviathan asleep 
on the sea, as we approached. It is a pity that 
steam should come near such a place, for its 
bustle is not in harmony with the vast repose. 

276 


ENGLISH DAYS 


I suppose the world could scarcely furnish an¬ 
other such stately and salubrious spot as exactly 
this ; for the climate of the Isle of Man is ex¬ 
tremely mild and genial. From my parlor win¬ 
dows, in the Fort Anne Hotel, I look out on the 
beautiful crescent harbor from a good height. 
Mountains rise above high hills on the horizon in 
soft, large, mellow lines, which I am never weary 
of gazing at. The hills are of precious emerald 
stone; the sea is an opal; the distant mountains 
are a pile of topazes; and the sky is turquoise 
and gold. But why attempt to put into ink such a 
magnificent setting as this? No jewels could be 
compared to it. God alone could mingle these 
colors and pencil these grand lines. . . . 

Rock Park, August 2. 

Dear Elizabeth, — We returned last Satur¬ 
day, after a delightful visit to Mona of a fort¬ 
night. We had constantly splendid weather, and 
there was one day which Mr. Hawthorne and I 
concluded we had never seen equaled in any 
hemisphere. ... I took Una and Julian to Glen 
Darragh to see the ruins of a Druidical temple. . . . 
We ascended Mount Murray . . . and a magnifi¬ 
cent landscape was revealed to us ; a fertile valley 
of immense extent. . . . But before we arrived 
at Glen Darragh we came to Kirk Braddon, an 
uncommonly lovely place. I knew that in the 
churchyard were two very old Runic monuments, 
so we alighted. . . . The family residence of the 
late Duke of Atholl is situated at the extremity 
2 77 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

of a flat meadow; and as far as I could see, it did 
not seem a very princely residence. But in this 
country I am often struck with the simplicity and 
freedom from show which those of real rank are 
contented with. They seem really to agree with 
Burns that “the man's the gowd” At Knows- 
ley, the residence of the Earls of Derby, the in¬ 
side of the mansion was very simple, and they are 
the proudest nobles of England. 

We finally arrived at Glen Darragh, and I 
gazed about in vain to see the ruins of a temple. 

. . . We came at last to some mounds of earth, 
with rough stones on their tops, but I could dis¬ 
cover no design or order to them, and was quite 
cast down. But then I saw more, at a short dis¬ 
tance, of better hope, and I ran to them, and 
found they were stones placed in a circular form, 
inclosing about fourteen yards diameter. These 
stones, however, were unhewn and of moderate 
size. And this was all. I broke off a crumb of 
one of the stones, and looked around me. It was 
quite desolate, for a large space. Not a tree or 
a shrub grew near, but grand mountains rose up 
on every side. Glen Darragh means the vale of 
oaks, but not an oak could be seen. The singu¬ 
lar destruction of trees in this be-battled, be-con- 
quered island is unaccountable. Why invaders 
should uproot such innocent adorners of the earth 
is a mystery. It is said that the Druids found a 
great many pine woods there, and that they up¬ 
rooted them and planted their favorite oaks. But 
pines, oaks, Druids, temples, and all are gone now, 
278 


ENGLISH DAYS 


except these few stones. I wondered whether any 
terrible human sacrifices had been offered on the 
spot where I was standing. The mountains were 
the same, and the sky was the same; but all else 
had changed since those fearful days. ... Of 
course Rome was here, for where did that proud 
queen not set her imperial foot ? But the only 
sign of her left is at Castletown : it is an ancient 
altar. I looked out of the chamber window one 
night, and at twelve o’clock the golden flush of 
sunset still glowed in the west, and in the east 
was an enormous star. We often see Venus very 
large at home, but this was three times as large 
as we ever see it. I do not know what this star 
was. It must have been Venus, however. The 
star of beauty should surely rise over such a day 
as this had been. Once we rowed about the 
island, and it was truly superb — this circumnavi¬ 
gation. We were near enough to the shore to see 
every house and animal and tree, but far off 
from dangerous rocks. We passed St. Manghold’s 
Head. The saint was an Irish prince, converted 
by St. Patrick, and became so eminent for sanctity 
that St. Bridget came from Ireland to receive the 
veil from him. It is the most eastern point of 
the island, and its summit is crested with rocks. 
Under one is a spring, called St. Manghold’s 
Well, which is thought to have medicinal virtues ; 
and if any one who drinks the waters sits at the 
same time in the saint’s chair, — a rude stone 
seat near, — they will certainly prove beneficial. 
We landed at Ramsey, and walked through the 
279 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

town. Towns fade into utter insignificance in that 
island. Nature is so grand there that houses 
and streets seem impertinences, and make no 
account, unless some stately castle towers up. 
The towns look like barnacles clinging to a majes¬ 
tic ship’s sides. . . . This evening Mr. Hawthorne 
brings me news of the death of L. Howes ! We 
were thinking yesterday what a mournful change 
had come over that family since we used to go 
every Saturday evening and see them, in most 
charming family group, all those bright, intelli¬ 
gent, happy faces gathered round the centre- 
table or fireside, beaming with life, and mind, and 
heart. . . . 

Julian enjoyed the rocks and beaches and sea¬ 
bathing at Mona greatly, and on his return here 
was homesick for it all for two days. Una grew 
so homesick for Rockferry that she could hardly 
be kept away till I was ready to come, though she 
also enjoyed the sea and the island very much. 
But I think she has inhabitiveness to a great de¬ 
gree. As to Rose, she was like a sunbeam from 
morning to night. ... I have a slight journal of 
my visit to the Isle of Man, written at the earnest 
request of Mr. Hawthorne. 

Rose is in no danger of forgetting you. We 
talk to her about you a great deal, and she is 
always referring to “When I was in ’Morica.” 
Miss Martineau is about Liverpool, and while I 
was at the island Mr. Bright took Mr. Hawthorne 
to see her. She was extremely agreeable and 
brilliant. She has become quite infidel in her 
280 


ENGLISH DAYS 


opinions. ... It must be either a fool or a mad¬ 
man who says there is no God. ... I had a de¬ 
lightful visit from the Cochrans, and went with 
them to Chester. Martha was deeply affected by 
the Cathedral, especially by the cloisters. Tears 
filled her eyes. After luncheon, we went to see 
a Roman bath and a Roman crypt, the last dis¬ 
covered within a few months. The bath is back 
of, and beneath, a crockery shop. We saw first 
a cold bath. It was merely an oblong stone basin, 
built round a perpetual spring. A high iron rail¬ 
ing now guards it, and we looked into what seemed 
almost a well, where the Romans used to plunge. 
. . . The black water reflected the candle and 
glittered far below. It might be the eye of one 
of the twentieth legion. We then went into a 
shop and asked for the crypt. The men pointed 
to a door, which we opened, and nearly tumbled 
down some stone steps. By degrees our eyes 
became owlish, and we gradually saw, as if loom¬ 
ing out of past ages, the beautiful arches of the 
roof, and the columns on each side. . . . 

My mother gives a glimpse of the vicissitudes 
of the Consulate, — that precinct which I pictured 
as an ogre’s lair, though the ogre was temporarily 
absent, while my father, like a prince bewitched, 
had been compelled by a rash vow to languish in 
the man-eater’s place for a term of years : — 

“ In the evening Mr. Hawthorne told me that 
there were suddenly thrown upon his care two 
hundred soldiers who had been shipwrecked in the 
281 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

San Francisco, and that he must clothe and board 
them and send them home to the United States. 
They were picked up somewhere on the sea and 
brought to Liverpool. Mr. Hawthorne has no 
official authority to take care of any but sailors in 
distress. He invited the lieutenant to come and 
stay here, and he must take care of the soldiers, 
even if the expense comes out of his own purse.” 
[Later.] “ Mr. Hawthorne sent to Mr. Buchanan 
(the Ambassador) about the soldiers, and he would 
share no responsibility, though it was much more 
a matter pertaining to his powers than to a con¬ 
sul. . . . Mr. Hawthorne has supplied them with 
clothes and lodgings, and has finally chartered for 
their passage home one of the Cunard steamers ! 
Such are his official reverses.” 

“Last Friday I received a note from the wife of 
the U. S. Consul at London, inviting me and the 
children to go with Mr. Hawthorne to town, to see 
the Queen open Parliament. It was such a cordial 
invitation that it was nearly impossible to refuse; 
but we could not go, Mr. Hawthorne was so busy 
with these soldiers, and with trials in the police 
courts ; so that he could not leave his post.” [Still 
later.] “As to shipwrecked sailors , there seems 
no end to them; and for all Mr. Hawthorne’s costs 
for them he is, of course, repaid. His hands are 
full all the time. But in the history of the world, 
it is said, there never were so many shipwrecks as 
there have been this last winter. The coasts of 
Great Britain seem to have been nothing but stum¬ 
bling-blocks in the way of every ship. ... I have 
282 


ENGLISH DAYS 


seen, in an American paper, a passage in which 
the writer undertakes to defend my husband from 
some dirty aspersions. It seems that some one 
had told the absolute falsehood that he had shirked 
all responsibility about the shipwrecked soldiers, 
and his defender stated the case just as it was, and 
that Mr. Buchanan declined having anything to 
do with the matter. The government will make 
the chartering of the steamer good to Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne. ... He has been very busily occupied at 
the Consulate this winter and spring, — so many 
disasters at sea, and vagabonds asking for money. 
He has already lost more than a hundred pounds 
by these impostors. But he is very careful indeed, 
and those persons who have proved dishonest were 
gentlemen in their own esteem, and it was difficult, 
to suspect them. But he is well on his guard now; 
and he says the moment he sees a coat-tail he knows 
whether the man it belongs to is going to beg! 
His life in the Consulate is not charming. He has 
to pay a great penalty for the result of his toil. 
Not that he has any drudgery, but he is imprisoned 
and in harness. He will not let me take a pen in 
my hand when he is at home, because at any rate 
I see him so little.” 

Such paragraphs as the one I add, from a little 
letter of my sister’s, often appear ; but in this 
instance it was the glad exclamation of release, just 
before we removed to Italy : — 

“ Papa will be with us on Monday, free from 
the terrors of the old Consulate. Perhaps you 
can imagine what infinitely joyful news that is to 
283 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


us; and to him, too, as much, if not more so; for 
he has had all the work, and we have only suffered 
from his absence.” 

The letters proceed : — 

My dear Father, — It was delightful to see 
your handwriting this week, written with the same 
firmness as ever. It gives me unspeakable satis¬ 
faction to know that the drafts Mr. Hawthorne 
sent contribute to your ease, and supply you with 
embellishments and luxuries, which in sickness are 
necessaries. I only wish I could put strength into 
your limbs, as well as provide you with a stuffed 
chair to repose them upon. Mr. Hawthorne has 
wished, you see, to prevent your having any anxiety 
about little wants. It will be all right for the 
present, and future too. ... I suppose the War 
will affect everything in a disastrous manner, 
except the End, and that God will take into His 
own hands for good, no doubt, though not as 
either party proposes. 

Here in England we are wholly occupied with 
the War. No one thinks or talks of anything else. 
Every face is grave with sorrow for the suffering 
and slaughter, and then triumphant with pride 
and joy at the incredible heroism of the troops. 
. . . In his sermon before the last, Mr. Channing 
brought out my dearest, inmost doctrines and faith; 
the sovereignty of good ; the unfallen ideal in man ; 
the impossibility of God’s ever for one moment 
turning from man, or being averse to him ; the es¬ 
sential transitoriness of evil. ... I deeply regret 
284 


ENGLISH DAYS 


that Una and Julian cannot hear the sermons for 
the little people, for I think it would do much 
towards saving their souls. 

My mother’s loss in the death of her father was 
a great grief, which fell upon her at this time. She 
wrote to my aunt: — 

Dear Elizabeth, — If anything could have 
softened such a blow, it would have been the 
divine way in which my husband told me. If a 
seraph can look more radiant with love — a flam¬ 
ing love, veiled with most tender, sorrowing sym¬ 
pathy — than he did, I am sure I cannot conceive 
of it, and am quite contented not to. I saw and 
felt in a moment how beyond computation and 
desert I was still rich,—richest. Father’s sin¬ 
cerity, his childlike guilelessness, his good sense 
and rectitude, his unaffected piety, — all and 
each of his qualities made him interesting to my 
husband. I really do not believe any one else 
ever listened to his stories and his conversation 
with as much love and interest. Whatever is real 
and simple and true attracts my husband both as 
a poet and as a man. Genuine nature he always 
springs to. Father was entirely unspoiled by the 
world — as pure of it as a dewdrop. This indeed 
made him a rare person. He seems to stand 
meekly in the presence of God. Where more arch- 
angelic intellect — divine genius — would tremble 
and faint, simple goodness will feel quite at home, 
with its one talent become two talents, and its faith 
285 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


and hope blossomed into reality. By and by I 
shall perhaps have a vivid sense of his presence, 
as I did of mother s, six weeks after her depar¬ 
ture. 

We have been out, for the first time, walking in 
the garden. The morning was beautiful. The 
budding shrubbery was on every side, and daisies 
and wallflowers and auriculas blooming even while 
a thin veil of snow lay in some places. 

Una, in writing home to America, portrays the 
family peace, and the little landscapes of the quieter 
corners of our “ Old Home : ” — 

“ We have got to England at last. It does not 
seem as if we were in England, but in Boston or 
Salem. There is not so much noise here as there 
was in Boston. 

“Mamma has told you about Mr. Rathbone’s 
place, but I do not think she has told you about 
one place by the wall. The wall is run over with 
all sorts of vines, and there are summer-houses 
close up by the wall, and a little brook rippling in 
front, and a great many mighty trees in front, so 
that not a ray of the sun could peep through. 

“On Sunday, the great Easter Sunday, we went 
to the Chapel of the Blind, and stayed through 
the Communion service. Mamma received the 
sacrament. The sermon was very tiresome. It 
was about the skins that Adam and Eve wore. . . . 
I was very much interested in Chester, and all the 
old things I saw there, especially the Cathedral. 
As we walked round the cloisters you could almost 
286 


ENGLISH DAYS 


fancy you saw the monks pacing slowly round, 
and looking now and then on the beautiful dewy 
green grass which is in the middle of the cloisters. 
On Monday my dear godpapa [Mr. O’Sullivan] 
went to London. Mamma got up at half past four 
and set on the table some chicken - pie, some 
oranges, and what she thought to be stout, and 
some flowers which I had gathered in the morn¬ 
ing, and gave all these to him. 

“Rose is sitting on papa’s knee, and through her 
golden hair I can see her little contented face. She 
has got down now, and is engaged in a lively dis¬ 
cussion with Julian about her name. Julian has 
been dancing round with the heat, for he thought 
dancing round would keep him cool. Rose is sit¬ 
ting in mamma’s lap now, and she looks so jolly. 
Her very rosy round face and her waving flowing 
hair make her look so pretty. She is very sharp, 
and she has a great deal of fun in her. She 
has learnt ‘ Hark, the lark,’ ‘ The Cuckoo,’ and 
* Where the bee sucks, there suck I.’ She says 
them very prettily, and she has a sweet, simple 
way of saying what she knows.” 

Thoughts of her own country recall the joys of 
Lenox : — 

“ I have been nutting a great many times in 
Berkshire. Papa and mamma, Julian and I, all took 
large baskets and went into the woods, and there 
we would stay sometimes all day, picking walnuts 
and chestnuts. Perhaps where we were there 
were mostly walnuts ; but still there were a good 
many chestnuts. We had a very large oven in 
287 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

which we put as many of our nuts as we could, 
and the rest we put into large bags. We, and 
the rats and mice, had nice feasts on them every 
winter. 

“Papa bought Julian a pop-gun to console him 
when we were going away to visit the Brights, 
for he had not been invited. He was very good 
about it indeed, and fired off his pop-gun in honor 
of mamma’s going away. 

“ Papa gave Julian a new boat a little while ago, 
a yacht, and mamma has painted it beautifully in 
oils. I am going to make the sails for it. 

“ Please call me Primrose in your letters. Rose 
is called Periwinkle. Papa bought her an image 
of Uncle Tom and Eva, sitting on a bank, and 
Uncle Tom is reading the Bible. Eva has on- a 
plaid apron, and has yellow cheeks, and is not very 
pretty. Uncle Tom is not either. Baby was very 
much pleased.” 

To return to my mother’s records: — 

Rhyl, North Wales. 

Dr. Drysdale thought we needed another change 
of air, and so we came south this time. . . . The 
sun sinks just beside Great Orme’s Head, after 
turning the sea into living gold, and the heights 
into heaps of amethyst. On the right is only sea, 
sea, sea. ... I intended to go to the Queen’s 
Hotel, and knew nothing about the manner of liv¬ 
ing in the lodging fashion. So we have to submit 
to German silver and the most ordinary table ser¬ 
vice. . . . Ever since our marriage we have always 
288 


ENGLISH DAYS 


eaten off the finest French china, and had all things 
pretty and tasteful; because, you know, I would 
never have second-best services, considering my 
husband to be my most illustrious guest. But now! 
It is really laughable to think of the appointments 
of the table at which the Ambassador to Lisbon 
and the American Consul sat down last Saturday, 
when they honored me with their presence. And 
we did laugh, for it was of no consequence, — and 
the great bow window of our parlor looked out upon 
the sea. We did not come here to see French 
china and pure silver forks and spoons, but to walk 
on the beach, bathe in the ocean, and drive to mag¬ 
nificent old castles, — and get rid of whooping- 
cough. I had the enterprise to take all the children 
and Mary, and come without Mr. Hawthorne ; for 
he was in a great hurry to get me off, fearing the 
good weather would not last. He followed on 
Saturday with Mr. O’Sullivan, who arrived from 
Lisbon just an hour before they both started for 
Rhyl. . . . Julian’s worship of nature and natural 
objects meets with satisfaction here. . . . 

The following was also written from Rhyl: — 

“ While the carriage stopped I heard the raptu¬ 
rous warble of the skylark, and finally discovered 
him, mounting higher still and higher, pressing up¬ 
wards, and pouring out such rich, delicious music 
that I wanted to close my eyes and shut out the 
world, and listen to nothing but that. Not even 
Shelley’s or Wordsworth’s words can convey an 
adequate idea of this song. It seems as if its little 
289 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

throat were the outlet of all the joy that had been 
experienced on the earth since creation; and that 
with all its power it were besieging heaven with 
gratitude and love for the infinite bliss of life. 
Life, joy, love . The blessed, darling little bird, 
quivering, warbling, urging its way farther and 
farther ; and finally swooning with excess of delight, 
and sinking back to earth ! You see I am vainly 
trying to help you to an idea of it, but I cannot do 
it. I do not understand why the skylark should 
not rise from our meadows as well, and the night¬ 
ingale sing to our roses." 

Society and the sternness of life were, however, 
but a hair’s-breadth away : — 

“ Monday evening Mr. Hawthorne went to Rich¬ 
mond Hill to meet Mr. Buchanan. The service 
was entirely silver, plates and all, and in a high 
state of sheen. The Queen’s autograph letter was 
spoken of (which you will see in the ‘ Northern 
Times ’ that goes with this) ; and as it happens to 
be very clumsily expressed, Mr. Hawthorne was 
much perplexed by Mr. Buchanan’s asking him, 
before the whole company at dinner, * what he 
thought of the Queen’s letter.’ Mr. Hawthorne 
replied that it showed very kind feeling. * No,’ 
persisted the wicked Ambassador ; 4 but what do 
you think of the style ? ’ Mr. Hawthorne was 
equal to him, or rather, conquered him, however, 
for he said, ‘ The Queen has a perfect right to do 
what she pleases with her own English .’ Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne thought Miss Lane, Mr. Buchanan’s niece, 
a very elegant person, and far superior to any Eng- 
290 


ENGLISH DAYS 


lish lady present. The next evening Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne went to another dinner at Everton; so that 
on Wednesday, when we again sat down together, 
I felt as if he had been gone a month. This second 
dinner was not remarkable in any way, except that 
when the ladies took leave they all went to him 
and requested to shake hands with him ! 

“No act of the British people in behalf of the 
soldiers has struck me as so noble and touching 
as that of the reformed criminals at an institution 
in London. They wished to contribute something 
to the Patriotic Fund. The only way they could 
do it was by fasting. So from Sunday night till 
Tuesday morning they ate nothing, and the money 
saved (three pounds and over) was sent to the 
Fund! Precious money is this/’ 

In Rockferry, my first remembered home, the 
personality of my father was the most cheerful 
element, and the one which we all needed, as the 
sunshine is needed by an English scene to make 
its happiness apparent. If he was at all “ morbid,’* 
my advice would be to adopt morbidness at once. 
Perhaps he would have been a sad man if he had 
been an ordinary one. Genius can make charming 
presences of characters that really are gloomy and 
savage, being so magical in its transmutation of 
dry fact. People were glad to be scolded by Car¬ 
lyle, and shot down by Dr. Johnson. But I am 
persuaded by reason that those who called Haw¬ 
thorne sad would have complained of the tears of 
Coriolanus or Othello; and, with Coriolanus, he 
could say, “It is no little thing to make mine 
291 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

eyes to sweat compassion.” It was the presence 
of the sorrow of the world which made him silent 
Who dares to sneer at that ? When I think of my 
mother, — naturally hopeful, gently merry, ever 
smiling, — who, while my father lived, was so glad 
a woman that her sparkling glance was never 
dimmed, and when I have to acknowledge that 
even she did not fill us children with the zest of 
content which he brought into the room for us, 
I must conclude that genius and cheer together 
made him life-giving ; and so he was enchanting 
to those who were intimate with him, and to many 
who saw him for but a moment. Dora Golden, 
my brother’s old nurse, has said that when she 
first came to the family she feared my father was 
going to be severe, because he had a way of look¬ 
ing at strangers from under bent brows. But the 
moment he lifted his head his eyes flashed forth 
beautiful and kindly. She has told me that my 
mother and she used to think at dusk, when he 
entered the room before the lamps were lit, that 
the place was illuminated by his face; his eyes 
shone, his whole countenance gleamed, and my 
mother simply called him “our sunlight.” 

My sister’s girlish letters are evidence of the 
enthusiasm of the family for my father’s compan¬ 
ionship, and of our stanch hatred for the Consu¬ 
late because it took him away from us so much. 
He read aloud, as he always had done, in the easi¬ 
est, clearest, most genial way, as if he had been 
born only to let his voice enunciate an endless 
procession of words. He read “ The Lady of the 
292 


ENGLISH DAYS 


Lake ” aloud about this time, and Una wrote ex¬ 
pressing our delight in his personality over and 
above that in his usefulness : “ Papa has gone to 
dine in Liverpool, so we shall not hear * Don 
Quixote' this evening, or have papa either." 
Little references to him show how he was always 
weaving golden threads into the woof of daily 
monotony. Julian, seven years old, writes to his 
grandfather, “Papa has taught Una and me to 
make paper boats, and the bureau in my room 
is covered with paper steamers and boats." I 
can see him folding them now, as if it were yes¬ 
terday, and how intricate the newspapers became 
which he made into hulls, decks, and sails. At 
one time Una bursts out, in recognition of the 
unbroken peace and good will in the home, “ It 
will certainly be my own fault if I am not pretty 
good when I grow up, for I have had both example 
and precept." 

The nurse to whom I have just referred has 
said that when Julian was about four, sometimes 
he would annoy her while she was sewing; and 
if his father was in the room, she would tell 
Julian to go to him and ask him to read about 
Robbie, who was Robinson Crusoe. He would sit 
quietly all the time his father read to him, no 
matter for how long. But her master finally told 
Dora not to send Julian to him in this way to 
hear “ Robinson Crusoe," because he was “ tired 
of reading it to him." The nurse was a bit of a 
genius herself, in her way, and not to be easily 
suppressed, and when her charge became fidgety, 
293 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and she was in a hurry, she made one more experi¬ 
ment with Robbie. Her master turned round in 
his chair, and for the first time in four years she 
saw an angry look on his face, and he commanded 
her “never to do it again.” At three years of 
age Julian played pranks upon his father without 
trepidation. There was a “ boudoir ” in the house 
which had a large, pleasant window, and was there¬ 
fore thought to be agreeable enough to be used as 
a prison-house for Una and Julian when they were 
naughty. Julian conveyed his father into the 
boudoir, and shut the door on him adroitly. It 
had no handle on the inner side, purposely, and 
the astonished parent was caged. “You cannot 
come out,” said Julian, “ until you have promised 
to be a good boy.” Through the persistent dig¬ 
nity with which Hawthorne behaved, and with 
which he was always treated by the household, 
Julian had felt the down of playful love. 

Here are letters written to me while I was in 
Portugal with my mother, in 1856 : — 

My dear little Rosebud, — I have put a 
kiss for you in this nice, clean piece of paper. I 
shall fold it up carefully, and I hope it will not 
drop out before it gets to Lisbon. If you cannot 
find it, you must ask Mamma to look for it. Per¬ 
haps you will find it on her lips. Give my best 
regards to your Uncle John and Aunt Sue, and to 
all your kind friends, not forgetting your Nurse. 

Your affectionate father, 

N. H. 


294 


ENGLISH DAYS 


My dear little Rosebud, — It is a great 
while since I wrote to you; and I am afraid this 
letter will be a great while in reaching you. I 
hope you are a very good little girl; and I am 
sure you never get into a passion, and never 
scream, and never scratch and strike your dear 
Nurse or your dear sister Una. Oh no! my lit¬ 
tle Rosebud would never do such naughty things 
as those. It would grieve me very much if I 
were to hear of her doing such things. When 
you come back to England, I shall ask Mamma 
whether you have been a good little girl; and 
Mamma (I hope) will say : * Yes ; our little Rose¬ 
bud has been the best and sweetest little girl I 
ever knew in my life. She has never screamed 
nor uttered any but the softest and sweetest 
sounds. She has never struck Nurse nor Una 
nor dear Mamma with her little fist, nor scratched 
them with her sharp little nails; and if ever there 
was a little angel on earth, it is our dear little 
Rosebud ! ” And when Papa hears this, he will 
be very glad, and will take Rosebud up in his 
arms and kiss her over and over again. But if 
he were to hear that she had been naughty, Papa 
would feel it his duty to eat little Rosebud up ! 
Would not that be very terrible ? 

Julian is quite well, and sends you his love. I 
have put a kiss for you in this letter; and if you 
do not find it, you may be sure that some naughty 
person has got it. Tell Nurse I want to see her 
very much. Kiss Una for me. 

Your loving 
295 


Papa. 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

The next letter is of later date, having been 
written while the rest of the family were in 
Manchester: — 

My dear little Pessima, — I am very glad 
that Mamma is going to take you to see “Tom 
Thump; ” and I think it is much better to call 
him Thump than Thumb, and I always mean to 
call him so from this time forward. It is a very 
nice name, is Tom Thump. I hope you will call 
him Tom Thump to his face when you see him, 
and thump him well if he finds fault with it. Do 
you still thump dear Mamma, and Fanny, and 
Una, and Julian, as you did when I saw you last ? 
If you do, I shall call you little Rose Thump; 
and then people will think that you are Tom 
Thump’s wife. And now I shall stop thumping 
on this subject. 

Your friend little Frank Hallet is at Mrs. 
Blodget’s. Do you remember how you used to 
play with him at Southport, and how he some¬ 
times beat you ? He seems to be a better little 
boy than he was then, but still he is not so good 
as he might be. This morning he had some very 
nice breakfast in his plate, but he would not eat 
it because his mamma refused to give him some¬ 
thing that was not good for him; and so, all 
breakfast-time, this foolish little boy refused to 
eat a mouthful, though I could see that he was 
very hungry, and would have eaten it all up if 
he could have got it into his mouth without any- 
296 


ENGLISH DAYS 


body seeing. Was not he a silly child ? Little 
Pessima never behaved so, — oh no! 

There are two or three very nice little girls at 
Mrs. Blodget’s, and also a nice large dog, who is 
very kind and gentle, and never bites anybody; 
and also a tabby cat, who very often comes to me 
and mews for something to eat. So you see we 
have a very pleasant family; but, for all that, I 
would rather be at home. 

And now I have written you such a long letter 
that my head is quite tired out; and so I shall 
leave off, and amuse myself with looking at some 
pages of figures. 

Be a good little girl, and do not tease Mamma, 
nor trouble Fanny, nor quarrel with Una and 
Julian; and when I come home I shall call you 
little Pessima (because I am very sure you will 
deserve that name), and shall kiss you more than 
once. N. H. 

If he said a few kind words to me, my father 
gave me a sense of having a strong ally among 
the great ones of life; and if I were ill, I was 
roused by his standing beside me to defy the ill¬ 
ness. When I was seriously indisposed, at the 
age of three, he brought me a black doll, which I 
heard my mother say she thought would alarms 
me, as it was very ugly, and I had never seen a* 
negro. I remember the much-knowing smile with 
which my father’s face was indefinitely lighted up 
as he stood looking at me, while I, half uncon¬ 
scious to most of the things of this world, was 
297 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

nevertheless clutching his gift gladly to my heart. 
The hideous darky was soon converted by my 
nurse Fanny (my mother called her Fancy, be¬ 
cause of her rare skill with the needle and her 
rich decorations of all sorts of things) into a beau¬ 
tifully dressed footman, who was a very large 
item in my existence for years. I thought my 
father an intensely clever man to have hit upon 
IPompey, and to have understood so well that he 
^would make an angel. All his presents to us Old 
IPeople, as he called us, were either unusual or 
^of exquisite workmanship. The fairy quality was 
.indispensable before he chose them. We chil¬ 
dren have clung to them even to our real old age. 
The fairies were always just round the corner of 
'the point of sight, with me, and in recognition of 
■my keen delight of confidence in the small fry my 
father gave me little objects that were adapted 
to them : delicate bureaus with tiny mirrors that 
had reflected fairy faces a moment before, and 
little tops that opened by unscrewing them in an 
unthought-of way and held minute silver spoons. 
Once he brought home to Julian a china donkey’s 
head in a tall gray hat such as negroes and poli¬ 
ticians elect to wear, and its brains were com¬ 
posed entirely of borrowed brilliancy in the shape 
of matches. We love the donkey still, and it 
always occupies a place of honor. He brought 
me a little Bacchus in Parian marble, wearing a 
wreath of grapes, and holding a mug on his knee, 
and greeting his jolly stomach with one outspread 
hand, as if he were inwardly smiling as he is out- 
298 


ENGLISH DAYS 


wardly. This is a vase for flowers, and the white 
smile of the god has gleamed through countless 
of my sweetest bouquets. 

My father’s enjoyment of frolicking fun was as 
hilarious as that accorded by some of us to wildest 
comic opera. He had a delicate way of throw¬ 
ing himself into the scrimmage of laughter, and 
I do not for an instant attempt to explain how he 
managed it. I can say that he lowered his eye¬ 
lids when he laughed hardest, and drew in his 
breath half a dozen times with dulcet sounds and 
a murmur of mirth between. Before and after 
this performance he would look at you straight 
from under his black brows, and his eyes seemed 
dazzling. I think the hilarity was revealed in 
them, although his cheeks rounded in ecstasy. I 
was a little roguish child, but he was the young¬ 
est and merriest person in the room when he was 
amused. Yet he was never far removed from his 
companion, — a sort of Virgil, — his knowledge of 
sin and tragedy at our very hearthstones. It was 
with such a memory in the centre of home joys 
that the Pilgrim Fathers turned towards the door, 
ever and anon, to guard it from creeping Indian 
forms. 

On Sundays, at sundown, when the winter rain 
had very likely dulled everybody’s sense of more 
moderate humor, the blue law of quietness was 
lifted from the atmosphere; and between five and 
six o’clock we spread butterfly wings again, and 
had blind man’s buff. We ran around the large 
centre-table, and made this gambol most tempest- 
299 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

uously merry. If anything had been left upon 
the table before we began, it was removed with 
rapidity before we finished. There was a distinct 
understanding that our blindfolded father must 
not be permitted to touch any of us, or else we 
should be reduced forthwith to our original dust. 
The pulsing grasp of his great hands and heavy 
fingers, soft and springing in their manipulation 
of one’s shoulders as the touch of a wild thing, 
was amusingly harmless, considering the howls 
with which his onslaught was evaded as long as 
our flying legs were loyal to us. My father’s 
gentle laughter and happy-looking lips were a re¬ 
velation during these bouts. I remember with 
what awe I once tied the blinding handkerchief 
round his head, feeling the fine crispness of his 
silky hair, full of electricity, as some people’s is 
only on frosty days; yet without any of that 
crinkly resistance of most hair that is full of en¬ 
ergy. But there were times when I used to stand 
at a distance and gaze at his peaceful aspect, and 
wonder if he would ever open the floodgates of 
fun in a game of romp on any rainy Sunday of 
the future. If a traveler caught the Sphinx hum¬ 
ming to herself, would he not be inclined to sit 
down and watch her till she did it again ? 

I have referred to his large hand. I shall never 
see a more reassuring one than his. It was broad, 
generous, supple. It had the little depressions 
and the smoothness to be noticed in the hands of 
truest charity ; yet it had the ample outlines of 
the vigorously imaginative temperament, so dif- 
300 


ENGLISH DAYS 


ferent from the hard plumpness of coarseness or 
brutality. At the point where the fingers joined 
the back of the hand were the roundings-in that 
are reminiscent of childhood’s simplicity, and are 
to be found in many philanthropic persons. His 
way of using his fingers was slow, well thought 
out, and gentle, though never lagging, that most 
unpleasant fault indicative of self - absorbed na¬ 
tures. When he did anything with his hands he 
seemed very active, because thoroughly in earnest. 
He delighted me by the way in which he took 
hold of any material thing, for it proved his self- 
mastery. Strength of will joined to self-restraint 
is a combination always enjoyable to the onlooker ; 
but it is also evidence of discomfort and effort 
enough in the heroic character that has won the 
state which we contemplate with so much ap¬ 
proval. I remember his standing once by the fire, 
leaning upon the mantelpiece, when a vase on the 
shelf toppled over in some way. It was a cheap, 
lodging-house article, and yet my father tried to 
save it from falling to the floor as earnestly as he 
did anything which he set out to do. His hand 
almost seized the vase, but it rebounded; and 
three times he half caught it. The fourth time 
he rescued it as it was near the floor, having be¬ 
come flushed and sparkling with the effort of will 
and deftness. For years that moment came back 
to me, because his determination had been so val¬ 
iantly intense, and I was led to carry out deter¬ 
minations of all sorts from witnessing his self-re¬ 
spect and his success in so small a matter. People 
301 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

of power care all the time. It is their life-blood 
to succeed; they must encourage their precision 
of eye and thought by repeated triumphs, which 
so soothe and rejoice the nerves. 

He was very kind in amusing me by aid of 
my slate. That sort of pastime suited my hours 
of silence, which became less and less broken by 
the talkative vein. His forefinger rubbed away 
defects in the aspect of faces or animals with a 
lion-like suppleness of sweep that seemed to me 
to wipe out the world. We also had a delicious 
game of a labyrinth of lines, which it was neces¬ 
sary to traverse with the pencil without touching 
the hedges, as I called the winding marks. We 
wandered in and around without a murmur, and 
I reveled in delight because he was near. 

Walking was always a great resource in the 
family, and it was a half-hearted matter for us 
unless we were at his side. His gait was one of 
long, easy steps which were leisurely and not 
rapid, and he cast an occasional look around, stop¬ 
ping if anything more lovely than usual was to 
be seen in sky or landscape. It is the people 
who love their race even better than themselves 
who can take into their thought an outdoor scene. 
In England the outdoor life had many enchant¬ 
ments of velvet sward upon broad hills and flow¬ 
ers innumerable and fragrant. A little letter of 
Una’s not long after we arrived in Rockferry 
alludes to this element in our happiness : — 

“ We went to take a walk to-day, and I do not 
think I ever had such a beautiful walk before in all 
302 


ENGLISH DAYS 


my life. Julian and I got some very pretty flowers, 
such as do not grow wild in America. I found 
some exquisite harebells by the roadside, and some 
very delicate little pink flowers. And I got some 
wild holly, which is very pretty indeed; it has very 
glossy and prickery leaves. I have seen a great 
many hedges made of it since I have been here; 
for nothing can get over it or get through it, for it 
is almost as prickery as the Hawthorne [the bush 
and the family name were always the same thing 
to us children], of which almost all the hedges in 
Liverpool, and everywhere I have been, are made; 
and there it grows up into high trees, so that no¬ 
thing in the world can look through it, or climb 
over it, or crawl through it; and I am afraid our 
poor hedge in Concord will never look so well, 
because the earth round it is so sandy and dry, 
and here it is so very moist and rich. It ought 
to be moist, at any rate, for it rains enough.” But 
later she writes on “ the eighteenth day of perfect 
weather,” and where can the weather seem so 
perfect as in England ? 

After breakfast on Christmas we always went 
to the places, in that parlor where Christmas 
found us (nomads that we were), where our mother 
had set out our gifts. Sometimes they were on 
the large centre-table, sometimes on little sepa¬ 
rate tables, but invariably covered with drape¬ 
ries; so that we studied the structure of each 
mound in fascinated delay, in order to guess 
what the humps and hubbies might indicate 
as to the nature of the objects of our treasure- 
303 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

trove. The happy-faced mother, who could be 
radiant and calm at once, — small, but with a 
sphere that was not small, and blessed us grandly, 
— received gifts that had been arranged by Una 
and the nurse after all the other El Dorados were 
thoroughly veiled, and our hearts stood still to 
hear her musical cry of delight, when, having 
directed the rest of us to our presents, she at 
last uncovered her own. Our treasures always 
exceeded in number and charm our wildest hopes, 
although simplicity was the rule. Whatever my 
mother interested herself about, she accomplished 
with a finish and spirit that distinguished her per¬ 
formance as a title on a reputation distinguishes 
common clay. She threw over it the faithful 
ardor which is akin to miracle : the simplest twig 
in her hand budded; her dewdrops were filled 
with all the colors of the rainbow, because with 
her the sun always shone. She writes a descrip¬ 
tion of our happy first Christmas in England, in 
which are these passages: “We had no St. Nich¬ 
olas or Christmas-tree; and so, after all had gone 
to bed, I arranged the presents upon the centre- 
table in the drawing-room. . . . From a vase in the 
middle a banner floated with an inscription upon 
it: * A Merry Christmas to all!' Una had given 
Rose a little watch for her footman Pompey; 
Mrs. O’Sullivan had sent her a porcelain rosary, 
which was put in a little box; and Mr. Bright had 
sent her an illuminated edition of ‘This is the 
House that Jack Built.’ Julian found a splendid 
flag from Nurse. This flag was a wonder. . . . 
304 


ENGLISH DAYS 


The stripes were made of a rich red and white 
striped satin, which must have been manufac¬ 
tured for the express purpose of composing the 
American flag. The stars were embroidered in 
silver on a dark blue satin sky. On the reverse, 
a rich white satin lining bore Julian’s cipher, sur¬ 
rounded with silver embroidery. . . . The children 
amused themselves with their presents all day. 
But first I took my new Milton and read aloud 
to them the Hymn of the Nativity, which I do 
every Christmas.” “ How easy it is,” my mother 
writes of a Christmas-tree for poor children, “with 
a small thing to cause a great joy, if there is only 
the will to do it! ” But most deeply did we de¬ 
light in the presents given to our beloved parents, 
whom we considered to be absolutely perfect be¬ 
ings ; and there was nothing which we ever per¬ 
ceived to make the supposition unreasonable. In 
one of Una’s girlish letters she declares : “ I will 
tell you what has given me almost — nay, quite 
as great pleasure as any I have had in England; 
that is, that Mamma has bought a gold watch- 
chain. She bought it yesterday at Douglas.” 
We had such thorough lessons in generosity that 
they sometimes took effect in a genuine self- 
effacement, like this. A letter from my mother 
joyfully records of my brother : — 

“Julian was asking Papa for a very expensive 
toy, and his father told him he was very poor this 
year, because the Consulate had not much busi¬ 
ness, and that it was impossible to buy him every¬ 
thing that struck his fancy. Julian said no more; 

305 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


and when he went to bed he expressed great con¬ 
dolence, and said he would not ask his father for 
anything if he were so poor, but that he would 
give him all his own money (amounting to five- 
pence halfpenny). When he lay down, his face 
shone with a splendor of joy that he was able 
thus to make his father’s affairs assume a brighter 
aspect. This enormous sum of money which Ju¬ 
lian had he intended, at Christmas-time, to devote 
to buying a toy for baby or for Una. He intended 
to give his all, and he could no more. In the 
morning, he took an opportunity when I was not 
looking to go behind his father, and silently handed 
him the fivepence halfpenny over his shoulder. 
My attention was first attracted by hearing Mr. 
Hawthorne say, * No, I thank you, my boy ; when 
I am starving, I will apply to you! ’ I turned 
round, and Julian’s face was deep red, and his lips 
were quivering as he took back the money. I 
was sorry his father did not keep it, however. I 
have never allowed the children to hoard money. 
I think the flower of sentiment is bruised and 
crushed by a strong-box ; and they never yet have 
had any idea of money except to use it for an¬ 
other’s benefit or pleasure. Julian saw an adver¬ 
tisement in the street of the loss of a watch, and 
some guineas reward. ‘Oh,’ said he, ‘howgladly 
would I find that watch, and present it to the 
gentleman, and say, No reward, thank you, sir! ’ ” 
My sister, who was made quite delicate, at first, 
by the English climate, and acquired from this 
temporary check and the position of eldest child 
306 


ENGLISH DAYS 


a pathetic nobility which struck the keynote of 
her character, writes from Rockferry: “ This 
morning of the New Year was very pleasant. It 
was almost as good as any day in winter in Amer¬ 
ica. I went out with Mamma and Sweet Fern 
[Julian]. The snow is about half a foot deep. 
Julian is out, now, playing. I packed him up 
very warmly indeed. I wish I could go out in 
the new snow very much. Julian is making a 
hollow house of snow by the rhododendron-tree/’ 
What not to do we learned occasionally from the 
birds. “ The little robins and a thrush and some 
little sparrows have been here this morning ; and 
the thrush was so large that she ate up the crumbs 
very fast, and the other poor little birds did not 
dare to come near her till she had done eating.” 
My father used to treat the Old and the New 
Year with the deepest respect. I never knew the 
moments to be so immense as when, with pitying 
gentleness, we silently attended the Old Year 
across the ghostly threshold of midnight, and my 
father at last rose reverently from his chair to 
open the window, through which, at that breath, 
the first peals would float with new promise and 
remembering toll. 

We children were expected to come into the 
presence of the grown people and enjoy the inter¬ 
esting guests whom we all loved. My father was 
skillful in choosing friends : they were rare, good 
men, and he and they really met; their loves and 
interests and his were stirred by the intercourse, 
as if unused muscles had been stretched. I 
307 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

could perceive that my father and his best cronies 
glowed with refreshment. Mr. Bennoch was a 
great favorite with us. He was short and fat, 
witty and jovial. He was so different in style and 
finish from the tall, pale, spiritual Henry Bright 
(whom my mother speaks of as “ shining like a 
star" during an inspiring sermon) that I almost 
went to sleep in the unending effort to understand 
why God made so sharp a variety in types. Mr. 
Bennoch wrote more poetry than Mr. Bright did, 
even, and he took delight in breathing the same 
air with writers. But he himself had no capacity 
more perfected than that of chuckling like a whole 
brood of chickens at his own jokes as well as those 
of others. The point of his joke might be ob¬ 
scure to us, but the chuckle never failed to satisfy. 
He was a source of entire rest to the dark-browed, 
deep-eyed thinker who smiled before him. The 
only anecdote of Mr. Bennoch which I remember 
is of a Scotchman who, at an inn, was wandering 
disconsolately about the parlor while his dinner 
was being prepared. A distinguished traveler — 
Dickens, I think — was dashing off a letter at the 
centre-table, describing the weather and some of 
the odd fellows he had observed in his travels. 
“And,” he wrote, “there is in the room at the 
present moment a long, lank, red-headed, empty- 
brained nincompoop, who looks as if he had not 
eaten a square meal for a month, and is stamping 
about for his dinner. Now he approaches me as I 
sit writing, and I hear his step pause behind my 
chair. The fool is actually looking over my shoul- 
308 


ENGLISH DAYS 


der, and reading these words ” — A torrent of 
Scotch burst forth right here : “ It’s a lee, sir, 
— it’s a lee! I never read a ivorrd that yer 
wrort! " Screams from us ; while Mr. Bennoch’s 
sudden aspect of dramatic rage was as suddenly 
dropped, and he blazed once more with broad 
smiles, chuckling. I will insert here a letter 
written by this dear friend in 1861 : — 

80 Wood Street, London. 

My dear Hawthorne,— A few lines just 
received from Mr. Fields remind me of my too 
long silence. Rest assured that you and yours 
are never long out of our thoughts, and we only 
wish you were here in our peaceful country, far 
removed from the terrible anxieties caused by 
wicked and willful men on one side, and on the 
other permitted by the incompetents set over you. 
How little you thought, when you suggested to 
me the propriety of old soldiers only going into 
battle, that you should have been absolutely pre¬ 
dicting the unhappy course of events ! Do you 
remember adding that “ a premium should be 
offered for men of fourscore, as, with one foot in 
the grave, they would be less likely to run away ” ? 
I observe that the “Herald” advises that “the 
guillotine should be used in cropping the heads 
of a lot of the officers, beginning at the city of 
Washington, and so make room for the young 
genius with which the whole republic palpitates.” 

. . . Truly, my dear Hawthorne, it is a melan¬ 
choly condition of things. Let us turn to a far 

309 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

more agreeable subject! It is pleasant to learn 
that, amid all the other troubles, your domestic 
anxieties have passed away so far as the health of 
your family is concerned. The sturdy youth will 
be almost a man, and Una quite a woman, while 
Rosebud will be opening day by day in knowledge 
and deep interest. I hear that your pen is busy, 
and that from your tower you are looking upon 
old England and estimating her influences and 
the character of her people. Recent experiences 
must modify your judgment in many ways. A 
romance laid in England, painted as you only can 
paint, must be a great success. I struggle on, 
and only wish I were worthy the respect my 
friends so foolishly exhibit. 

With affectionate regards to all, ever yours 
truly, F. Bennoch. 

On November 17, 1854, my mother writes : — 

“ Last evening a great package came from Mr. 
Milnes [Lord Houghton], and it proved to be all 
his own works, and a splendid edition of Keats 
with a memoir by Mr. Milnes. This elegant gift 
was only a return of favors, as Mr. Hawthorne 
had just sent him some American books. He 
expended three notes upon my husband’s going 
to meet him at Crewe Hall, two of entreaty and 
one of regret; but he declares he will have him at 
Yorkshire. Mrs. Milnes is Lord Crewe’s sister. 
The last note says : ‘ The books arrived safely, 
and alas ! alone. When I get to Yorkshire, to 
my own home, I shall try again for you, as I may 
310 


ENGLISH DAYS 


find you in a more ductile mood. For, seriously, 
it would be a great injustice — not to yourself, but 
to us — if you went home without seeing some¬ 
thing of our domestic country life : it is really the 
most special thing about our social system, and 
something which no other country has or ever 
will have.’ ” 

Another note from Lord Houghton is extant, 
saying: — 

Dear Mr. Hawthorne, — Why did not you 
come to see us when you were in London ? You 
promised to do so, but we sought you in vain. I 
wanted to see you, mainly for your own sake, and 
also to ask you about an American book which 
has fallen into my hands. It is called “ Leaves of 
Grass/’ and the author calls himself Walt Whit¬ 
man. Do you know anything about him ? I will 
not call it poetry , because I am unwilling to apply 
that word to a work totally destitute of art; but, 
whatever we call it, it is a most notable and true 
book. It is not written virginibus puerisque; 
but as I am neither the one nor the other, I may 
express my admiration of its vigorous virility and 
bold natural truth. There are things in it that 
read like the old Greek plays. It is of the same 
family as those delightful books of Thoreau’s 
which you introduced me to, and which are so 
little known and valued here. Patmore has just 
published a continuation of “The Angel in the 
House,” which I recommend to your attention. 
I am quite annoyed at having been so long within 
3 11 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the same four seas with you, and having seen 
you so little. Mrs. Milnes begs her best remem¬ 
brances. I am yours very truly, 

Richd. Monckton Milnes. 

16 Upper Brook Street, June 30. 

It is a perpetual marvel with some people why 
some others do not wish to be looked at and ques¬ 
tioned. Dinner invitations were constantly com¬ 
ing in, and were very apt to be couched in tones 
of anxious surprise at the difficulty of securing 
my father. An illustration may be found in this 
little note from Mr. Procter (father of Adelaide 
Procter): — 


32 Weymouth Street, Tuesday morning. 

Dear Mr. Hawthorne, — It seems almost like 
an idle ceremony to ask you and Mrs. Hawthorne 
to dine here on Friday; but I cannot help it. I 
have only just returned from a circuit in the coun¬ 
try, and heard this morning that you were likely 
to leave London in a few days. 

Yours always sincerely, 

B. W. Procter. 

It was desirable to meet such people as Mr. 
Procter, and I have heard enthusiastic descrip¬ 
tions, with which later my mother amused our 
quiet days in Concord, of the intellectual plea¬ 
sures that such friendships brought, and of the 
sounding titles and their magnificent accessories, 
with human beings involved, against whom my 
312 


ENGLISH DAYS 


parents were now sometimes thrust by the rapid 
tide of celebrity. But my father was never to be 
found in the track of admiring social gatherings 
except by the deepest scheming. In her first 
English letters my mother had written: “ It is 
said that there is nothing in Liverpool but din¬ 
ners. Alas for it! ” The buzz of greeting was 
constant. It must have been delightful in cer¬ 
tain respects. She sent home one odd letter as a 
specimen of hundreds of similar ones which came 
to my father from admirers. Yet very soon indi¬ 
viduals make a crowd, and the person who attracts 
their attention is more nearly suffocated than the 
rest quite realize. His attempts at self-preserva¬ 
tion are not more than half understood, and, if 
successful, are remembered with a dash of bitter¬ 
ness by the onlookers. 


To her husband in Liverpool, Mrs. Hawthorne 
writes : — 

London, September 19. 

My Dearest, — At half past three Mrs. Rus¬ 
sell Sturgis came in her sumptuous barouche. 
We drove all through the fashionable squares and 
streets and parks, and all through Kensington, 
even to the real Holland House. But Leigh 
Hunt’s book went all out of my head when I 
tried to think what he said about it. Mrs. Stur¬ 
gis knows him very well, and often visits him in 
his humble cottage. Oh, dear me! Such superb 
squares and terraces as I saw! Mrs. Sturgis 
told me where Sir E. B. Lytton, and many noted 

313 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and noble persons, lived. We drove through May- 
fair, but I did not see Miss Cushman’s house, 
i Bolton Row. We certainly had a fine time. 
At five we got back, and I found the Ambassa¬ 
dor’s card, and Miss Lane’s, inviting us there this 
evening. 

September 20. I was just hurrying off with 
Mr. Bright when I wrote the two lines of post¬ 
script in my letter this morning, in answer to 
your note, — so like you; so tender and kind. 
Since I must go away, I ought not to have said a 
word; but you must ascribe what I said and say 
to infinite love only; for it is only because of this 
that I do not look forward with delight to a win¬ 
ter in Lisbon with the O’Sullivans. I could not 
be happy if you made any sacrifice for me; and 
as our interests are indissoluble, it would be my 
sacrifice, too. So I will be good, and not distress 
you with more regrets. I once thought that no 
power on earth should ever induce me to live 
without you, and especially thought that an ocean 
should never roll between us. But I am over¬ 
powered by necessity; and since my life is of 
importance to you, I will not dare to neglect 
any means of preserving it. 

This morning baby was dressed in a beautiful 
embroidered white frock and blue sash, blue kid 
shoes, laced with blue ribbon, and blue silk sack 
fastened with a blue girdle, and a hat trimmed 
with blue and gray. Her long curls streamed 
out beneath. She was thus arrayed to visit Port- 
314 


ENGLISH DAYS 


land Place and the Sturgis children. Una looked 
very lovely in her summer cloud-muslin. 

Mr. Bright came at twelve o’clock, bringing 
five or six superb photographs of Cologne; I 
never saw any so splendid. Then we started for 
the Crystal Palace. It has been one of the divin- 
est days — one of our days, like that at Stratford- 
on-Avon. When we got into the cab, however, 
Mr. Bright proposed to go to the Houses of Parlia¬ 
ment first, and then at last concluded to give up 
the Crystal Palace, and see the sights of London 
instead. So we drove to the old St. James’s Pal¬ 
ace Yard. But a police-officer said we could only 
go in on Saturday, and then by a ticket from the 
Lord Chamberlain. I knew that> but supposed 
Mr. Bright had some other means of gaining ad¬ 
mittance. He had not, nevertheless. He took 
us (Julian was with me) over Westminster Bridge. 
... We went into the Photographic Exhibition 
of persons and places at the Crimea, which was 
just like taking up groups of the army and put¬ 
ting them before one’s eyes. It must be of won¬ 
derful interest to the relatives and friends of those 
who are there. The room was full of fine-look¬ 
ing, aristocratic people. From this we drove to 
Kensington Gardens ; and I must say, my dear 
lord, that I never imagined any place so grand 
and majestic, so royal and superb, as those 
grounds. The trees — oh, the trees — every one 
of them kings, emperors, and Czars; so tall, so 
rich, and the lawn beneath them so sunny-velvet 
3U 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

green, all made illustrious by the clearest warm 
sunshine, and a soft, sweet air. The magnificent 
groves of trees all round ; and far off in the ter¬ 
minus, the towers and pinnacles of the Parliament 
Houses, and Westminster Abbey towers, rise into 
the clear sky over the blue waters of the Serpen¬ 
tine. A pretty yacht, with one white wing, slowly 
moved along. Large, princely lambs grazed on 
the sunny lawns. I think that thou wouldst have 
asked no more in the way of a park. We sat down 
on a felled tree and talked awhile. I would almost 
give a kingdom to sit on the tree again, with 
thee. Was not Mr. Bright good and lovely to 
devote his only whole day in London to me? He 
certainly is the most amiable and hospitable of 
mortals. Thy Dove. 

My mother writes of Miss Bacon, who put Lord 
Bacon in that place in her heart where Shake¬ 
speare should have been : — 

My Dearest, — I have been reading Miss Ba¬ 
con’s manuscript this afternoon, and it is marvel¬ 
ous. She reveals by her interpretation of Lord 
Bacon more fully to me what I already divined 
dimly of the power of Christ over nature ; and it is 
the first word that I have found spoken or written 
which is commensurate with my actual idea. I felt 
as if I wanted to take this manuscript and all the 
others, and run off to some profound retreat, and 
study it all over, and reproduce it again with my 
own faculties. Oh, that I could read them with 
316 


ENGLISH DAYS 


you ! I almost begin to love the pain with which I 
delve after the thoughts presented in such a close 
and difficult handwriting. 

To Miss Peabody : — 

“ Miss Bacon cannot speak out fairly [upon the 
subject of Bacon and Shakespeare], though there 
is neither the Tower, the scaffold, nor the pile 
of fagots to deter her. But she is a wonder and 
a benefactor, — and let us not criticise her style; 
or rather, it is no matter whether we did or not, 
so much remains for her. I did not see her. I 
was just going to take Una and call upon her, 
when she went to Stratford. 

“ I hope Mr. Plumly has not forgotten his pro¬ 
ject of beneficence [towards her]. It must be a 
foretaste of heaven to have money to give away.” 

3U 


CHAPTER XI 


ENGLISH DAYS : III 

Tourist letters describe Wordsworth’s house 
and country at Rydal: — 

My dear Elizabeth, — I had a hope that when 
I left Rock Park I should be clothed with wings, 
and be able to write letters and journal and to 
draw. But I have been particularly wingless dur¬ 
ing the whole six weeks of our absence, and have 
done literally nothing but use my eyes. At Win¬ 
dermere we left Una, Rose, and Nurse at a charm¬ 
ing, homelike house, and Mr. Hawthorne, Julian, 
and I went farther north. We went first to Rydal 
and Grasmere, and at Grasmere Hotel, which is 
nearly opposite the grave of Wordsworth, I had 
set my heart upon writing you a long letter about 
those sacred places, especially sacred to you, the 
true lover of Wordsworth. On a most superb after¬ 
noon we took an open carriage at Lowood Hotel, 
where we had been staying for several days, and 
drove to Grasmere Hotel, where we left our lug¬ 
gage and then drove back to Rydal Water. We 
alighted just at the commencement of the lake, 
intending to loiter and enjoy it at leisure. The 
lake surprised me by its extreme smallness, — in 
America we should never think of calling it a lake; 

318 


ENGLISH DAYS 


but it receives dignity from the lofty hills and 
mountains that embosom it, and I thought it was 
irreverent in Mr. Hawthorne to say he “ could 
carry it all away in a porringer.” It has several 
very small islands in it, and one rather larger, 
which is a heronry. The lake and all the parks 
and grounds around belong to Sir Richard le Flem¬ 
ing, who is Lord of the Manor and of a very an¬ 
cient family in those regions. We presently came 
to a fine old crag by the shore, up which were 
some friendly steps; and we were entirely sure 
that Wordsworth had often gone up there and 
looked off upon his beloved Rydal from the sum¬ 
mit. We went up and sat down where we knew 
he must have sat, and there I could have dreamed 
for many hours. The gleam, the shadow, and the 
peace supreme were there, and I thought with an 
infinite joy how human beings have the power to 
consecrate the earth by genius, heroic deeds, and 
even homely virtues. The gorgeous richness of 
the vegetation, the fresh verdure, the living green 
of the lawns and woodlands, flooded and gilded by 
the sunshine, made me wonder whether the De¬ 
lectable Mountain could be much more beautiful, 
and made me realize deeply the poetic rapture, the 
noble, sustained enthusiasm of Wordsworth in 
his descriptions of natural scenery. It is only for 
perhaps a week in June that we in America can 
obtain an idea of the magnificent richness and 
freshness of English scenery. How can I find 
language airy and delicate enough to picture to 
you the fields of harebells, tossing their lovely 

319 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

heads on their threadlike stems, and bringing 
heaven to earth in the hue of their petals! Then 
the pale golden cuckoo-buds, the yellow gorse, the 
stately foxglove, standing in rows, like prismatic 
candelabra, all along the roadside, — and ah me, 
alas ! — the endless trees and vines of wild eglan¬ 
tine, with blossoms of every shade of pink, from 
carmine to the faintest blush, wreathing them¬ 
selves about and throwing out into your face 
and hands long streamers of buds and blossoms, 
so rarely and exquisitely lovely ! One wonders 
’whether it can be true or whether one is dreaming 
on the Enchanted Plain. I loved Wordsworth as 
I never could have done if I had not been in the 
very place that knew him, and seen how and why 
he worshiped as he did, what really seems there 
the perpetual Morning of Creation. 

At the right of the doorstep a superb fuchsia- 
tree stood, and I asked the man to pluck me 
one of the jewel blossoms. But he declined to 
approach so near, as he feared to disturb Mrs. 
Wordsworth. And he did not introduce us into 
her presence, because he said Lady le Fleming 
had told him never to disturb her with visitors, 
hut only show them the outside of the house. He 
i said Lady le Fleming built the house and it was 
hers, as well as everything else round about. But 
'we might have gone in, we now find, and Mrs. 
Wordsworth likes very much to see people. So 
this intelligent man led us through the pretty gar¬ 
dens and grounds, up and up and up innumerable 
steps in successive short flights, through many 
320 


ENGLISH DAYS 


wickets, till I began to think we could never reach 
our goal. Finally we came to a spot of constant 
shade where was a singularly shaped rock — a kind 
of slab — thrusting itself out from the wall, in 
which a brass plate was inserted with an inscrip¬ 
tion by Wordsworth, which we read. It expressed 
that he had pleaded for this rock as often as he 
had for other natural objects. 

The gardener opened a wicket, after passing 
the deep, shady nook, and said, “This is Mr. 
Wordsworth’s garden.” I looked about and saw 
troops of flowers, and sought for the white fox¬ 
glove, which was a favorite of his, and found it; 
and the air was loaded with a fine perfume, which 
I discovered to be from large beds of mignonette. 
In those paths he walked and watched and tended 
his plants and shrubs. Presently, after so much 
mounting of steps, and threading of embowered 
paths and lanes of flowers, we were ushered into 
the grounds immediately around the actual house. 
And the man first took us upon that memorable 
terraced lawn, in great part made by Words¬ 
worth’s own hands. It is circular, and the turf, 
like thick-piled velvet, yielding to the feet and of 
delicious green — smooth and soft. Perhaps it is 
thirty feet in diameter, and double, with a very 
high step. Beneath it is a gravel walk, and then 
a hedge of thick shrubs. Julian flung himself at 
full length on the velvet sward, and Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne and I sat down on the even tops of two 
stumps of trees, evidently intended for seats, as 
one meets them everywhere, arranged for that 
321 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

purpose. But how am I to tell you what I saw 
from them ? 

Wordsworth must have described it some¬ 
where. It was his beloved view. Richer could 
not have been the Vale of Cashmere. The moun¬ 
tains take most picturesque forms, and after 
throwing against the sky bold and grand outlines, 
they so softly curve down into the lovely dells 
that they seemed doing homage to beauty, lordly 
and gentle. And far away at the end of the val¬ 
ley, Windermere, Queen of the Lakes, reposed, 
gleaming silvery blue. This fair, open eye com¬ 
pleted the picture. In that was the soul revealed. 
I wished I had had my sketch-book to draw just 
the outlines, but was not too sorry, because I 
intended to go again, and then I would have it. 
Now I was content to gaze alone. 

The attractions of London are fully admitted by 
Mrs. Hawthorne, in various letters, from which I 
gather these sentences : — 

“ At last I have found myself in London soci¬ 
ety. I suppose Ellen and Mary [her nieces] would 
like to know what I wore on one occasion. I had 
on a sky-blue glac£ silk, with three flounces, which 
were embroidered with white floss, making a very 
silvery shine. The dress had low neck and short 
sleeves ; but I wore a jacket of starred blonde 
with flowing sleeves; and had round me also a 
shawl of Madeira lace, which, though very airy, 
fleecy, and cloud-looking, is warm and soft. My 
headdress was pearl, in the shape of bunches of 
322 


ENGLISH DAYS 


grapes and leaves, mingled with blue ribbon, with 
a wreath of pearl-traced leaves round my hair, 
which was rolled in coronet fashion. Was not 
that a pretty dress ? 

“ Mr. Hawthorne was invited to Monckton 
Milnes’ to a dejeuner\ and met there Macaulay, 
Mr. and Mrs. Browning, Lord Stanley, the Mar¬ 
quis of Lansdowne, Lord Goderich, etc. He en¬ 
joyed it very much; and the venerable old Mar¬ 
quis seemed bent on doing him honor and showing 
him respect. He insisted upon Mr. Hawthorne’s 
taking precedence of himself on every occasion. 
It is an immense disappointment to me that we 
cannot spend some months within daily reach of 
London, because I want Mr. Hawthorne to take 
a very full draught of it. But I shall persuade 
him to go up to the grim, glorious old city by him¬ 
self, if possible.” 

My mother had been so seriously attacked by 
bronchitis as to endanger her lungs, which led to 
a visit of six months to Lisbon and Madeira, my 
father remaining at the Consulate. While in 
exile, she writes to him : — 

“ I am all the time tumbling into fathomless 
reveries about going home. 

“ Dearest, I have an idea! .Next winter, if you 
wish to remain in England, and my coughing 
continues, I will tell you how I might do, and be 
most happy and comfortable. I might remain in 
my chamber all winter, and keep it at an even 
temperature, and exercise by means of the port¬ 
able gymnasium. I am sure the joy of your pre- 

323 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

sence would be better than any tropic or equa¬ 
tor without you. And I hate to be the means of 
your resigning from the Consulate.” 

We also went to Southport for my mother’s 
health. Here she writes : — 

My dear Elizabeth, — The Doctor will not 
let me walk more than thirty minutes at a time. 
Here there are no carriages with horses, but with 
donkeys, sometimes two or three abreast. They 
will go out to the edge of the deep sea. The don¬ 
keys walk, unless they take it into their heads 
to run a little. One day I mounted Una and 
Julian on donkeys, while Rose and I were in the 
carriage. One little girl belabored the two sad¬ 
dled donkeys, and one guided my two. They 
were weather-beaten, rosy girls, one with a very 
sweet young face. The elder conversed with me 
awhile, and said the ycung gentleman’s donkey 
was twenty years old and belonged to her bro¬ 
ther, who would surely die if they bartered it, 
“ because it is his, you know.” She smiled reluc¬ 
tantly when I smiled at her, as if she had too 
much care to allow herself to smile often, but evi¬ 
dently she was a sound-hearted, healthy, con¬ 
tented child, ready to shine back when shone 
upon. 

Mr. Hawthorne now knows what has been my 
danger, and he is watchful of every breath I draw ; 
and I would not exchange his guardianship for 
that of any winged angel of the hosts. God has 
given him to me for my angel, only He makes 

324 


ENGLISH DAYS 


him visible to my eye, as He does not every one’s 
angel. It seems as if even / never knew what 
felicity was till now. As the years develop my 
soul and faculties, I am better conscious of the 
pure amber in which I find myself imbedded. 

The Doctor shows me that it is my duty to 
be self-indulgent, and I can be so with a quiet 
conscience, and shall soon be all right in body, 
as I am all right in mind and heart. Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne never has anything. I do not believe 
there is another spirit so little disturbed by its 
body as his. 

... Mr. Hawthorne, you may be sure, will take 
care of me. I should think he would suppose you 
thought he had no interest in the matter; but he 
thinks of nothing else, and would give up the Con¬ 
sulate to-day if he saw it was best for me. 

After so hard a beginning, I long for him to re¬ 
pose from anxiety for the future of our life. I only 
wish that for others as well as for ourselves the 
fables about this Consulate had been truths. Be¬ 
cause what my husband would like would be to 
find always his right hand (unknown to his left) 
full of just what his fellow mortals might need, 
with no more end of means than there is of will 
to bestow. In him is the very poetry of benefi¬ 
cence, the pure, unalloyed fountain of bounty. 
It has been well tested here, where every kind of 
woe and want have besieged him. 

That provoking Consular bill has been in force 
nearly two years, depriving us of our rights to the 
amount now of about $35,000, because ever since 
325 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

it became the law the times have been more pros¬ 
perous. The year before that the business was 
miserable. I think it was unjust that the actual 
incumbents of the office should not have been 
allowed to fulfill their terms with the conditions 
upon which they commenced them. It was a bill 
hoisted in on the shoulders of the ministerial bill, 
which very strangely does not come in play till 

1857. 

December 11. 

Mr. Hawthorne is dining in the suburbs of Liv¬ 
erpool this evening, with a Mr. William Browne, 
M. P., to meet Baron Alderson. It is only the 
second dinner he has been obliged to sacrifice 
himself to since we have been in Southport. 
This Mr. Browne is a venerable gentleman, who 
takes the trouble to go to the Consulate, and 
bend his white head in entreaty, and he can no 
more be refused, all things considered, than two 
and two can refuse to be four. So, at the pre¬ 
sent moment, there sits my lord at the gorgeous 
board, shining like a galaxy with plate and crys¬ 
tal. There was lately a banquet in honor of Mr. 
Browne, which went off magnificently. All Liv¬ 
erpool and part of the county shared in it; and 
the town was hung with banners from end to 
end, and business was suspended. It was a su¬ 
perb day of bright sunshine and perfectly dry 
streets, and the procession of the selected guests, 
and then of subscribers, was immensely long. I 
believe fifteen hundred collated at St. George’s 
Hall; and on an elevated dais the twenty invited 
326 


ENGLISH DAYS 


guests sat. Mr. Hawthorne was one of these. 
He had received notice that Monckton Milnes 
was to give him a toast, and a speech would 
be expected. You may see by some papers 
that Mr. Milnes gave '‘The United States; ” 
but this is a mistake. It was “ Nathaniel Haw¬ 
thorne.” He was very cordial and complimen¬ 
tary ; but he did not say, as the reporter of the 
“ Post ” wrote, “ that the ‘ Scarlet Letter ’ stuck 
to the hearts of all who came in contact with 
it,” as if it were a kind of adhesive plaster; but 
that it “ struck to the hearts of all who read it.” 
When Mr. Hawthorne rose there was such a thun¬ 
der of applause and cheers that, after a while, 
he actually sat down till quiet was restored. Mr. 
Channing told me, day before yesterday, that his 
speech was admirable, and delighted all who knew 
him, and made the Americans proud of him. He 
sat beneath, but very near him. Was it not a 
burning shame that I was not there ? Many 
ladies were present in the galleries, and one of 
them sent a footman to Mr. Hawthorne, request¬ 
ing a flower or a leaf as a memento. The mod¬ 
est and generous Mr. Browne [who had just 
made a public bequest] was overwhelmed with 
the reverberations of gratitude on every side. 
Mr. Hawthorne said he liked Lord Stanley, 
though he was rather disappointed in his appear¬ 
ance. The latter had to respond to “The House 
of Stanley.” Lord Derby was to come, but was 
unable. Before the banquet, the corner - stone 
was laid. What a wise way this is — for rich men 
327 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

to make bequests during life. I hope many will 
do likewise. 

Yes, I have read about a thousand times over 
of Mr. Peabody’s gift to Baltimore. We have a 
great many American papers, and the English 
papers repeat everything of importance. Mr. 
Browne has done the same thing in Liverpool. 

December 18. Mr. Hawthorne had a stupid 
time enough at Mr. Browne’s dinner at Richmond 
Hill. Mr. Browne himself is always stupid, and 
Mrs. Browne never says a word. The judges 
were dumb and lofty with their own grandeur, 
and communicated no ideas. Do you know how 
very grand the judges are when in actof Do 
you know that they are then kings, and when the 
Queen is present they still have precedence ? So 
Imperial is Law in this realm. In going down to 
dinner, therefore, at Mr. Browne’s (whose dinner 
they kept waiting exactly an hour) they led the 
way, followed humbly by the High Sheriff of the 
county, who is always the first dignitary except 
where the judges lead. Then went the Mayor, 
attended by one of his magnificent footmen in 
the Town livery, which is so very splendid and 
imposing that “ each one looks like twenty gen¬ 
erals in full military costume,” as Mr. Hawthorne 
says; with scarlet plush vests, innumerable cor¬ 
dons and tassels of gold, small-clothes, and white 
hose, and blue coats embroidered with gold flow¬ 
ers. No crowned emperor ever felt so blindingly 
superb, and how they ever condescend to put down 
their feet on the floor is a wonder. Mr. Haw- 
328 


ENGLISH DAYS 


thorne followed next to the Mayor. There being 
no conversation, there was ample time to look at 
the truly gorgeous appointments of the table, upon 
which no china appeared, but only massive plate. 
The epergne was Phoebus Apollo in his chariot 
of the sun, with four horses galloping perpetually 
along the table without moving. The dessert- 
plates were bordered with wreaths of flowers and 
fruits in high relief, all of silver. Perhaps Mr. 
Browne’s wits have turned to silver, as Midas’s 
surroundings into gold. Mr. Hawthorne has gone 
to another dinner this evening at the Mayor’s. It 
is a state dinner to my lords the judges. Baron 
Alderson nearly expires with preeminence on 
these occasions, and perhaps he will cease to 
breathe to-night. These are heavy hours to Mr. 
Hawthorne. London society has put him even 
more out of patience than usual with Liverpool 
dinners, and I know he is wishing he were at 
home at this moment. Last evening he was read¬ 
ing to me the rare and beautiful “ Espousals ” of 
Coventry Patmore. Have you seen “ The Angel 
in the House ” yet ? It takes a truly married 
husband and wife to appreciate its exquisite mean¬ 
ing and perfection; but with your miraculous', 
power of sympathy and apprehension, I think, 
you will enjoy it, next to us. 

This evening, as I wrote, Prince Rose-red en¬ 
tered, holding aloft a clay head which he had been 
modeling. It was a great improvement upon the 
first attempts, and resembled Chevalier Daddi, 
Una’s music-teacher in Lisbon. He put it upon 

329 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the grate to bake, and then lay down on the rug, 
with his head on a footstool, to watch the process. 
But before it was finished I sent him to bed. It 
is after ten now, and the Chevalier has become 
thoroughly baked, with a crack across his left 
cheek. In all sorts of athletic exercises, in which 
a young Titan is required, Julian is eminent. 
Monsieur Huguenin, the gymnast, said that in all 
his years of teaching athletics, he had never met 
but once with his equal. Yet he moves in dan¬ 
cing in courtly measures and motions, and when 
he runs, he throws himself on the wind like a bird, 
and flits like a greyhound. Julian’s great head is 
a delicately organized one. I am obliged to have 
all his hats made expressly for him, and my hatter, 
Mr. Nodder, says he never saw such a circumfer¬ 
ence in his life. I always look upon his head as 
one of the planets. 

Our house has been robbed by two notorious 
thieves. They had much better have risked their 
lives in stealing the Hungarian Baron Alderson, 
whose full dress is incrusted with forty thousand 
pounds’ worth of diamonds and emeralds. We 
have met with a greater loss than these robbers 
caused us. Mrs. Blodget has all our luggage at 
her house in Liverpool; and one of her servant- 
men opened two of my trunks, which were in the 
cellar, and stole almost every piece of plate we 
possess — all the forks and spoons, and so on. 
He has confessed, while ill in a hospital. But 
Mr. Hawthorne will not prosecute him. 

Have you read Froude’s history, just published, 
33o 


ENGLISH DAYS 


from the period of the fall of Wolsey to the death 
of Elizabeth ? His style is wholly unlike that of 
the stately, but rather tiresome unchangeable can¬ 
ter of Macaulay’s. Macaulay takes care of his 
style, but Froude is only interested in his theme. 
I do not suppose any one historian has yet climbed 
up to the pinnacle of perfect impartiality, — un¬ 
less my darling Herodotus, who has the simpli¬ 
city of a child, and no theories at all. But Ma¬ 
caulay’s style tires me. fie is so ferociously lucid 
that he confuses me, as with too much light. It 
is the regular refrain of his brilliant sentences 
that finally has the effect of a grand jangle of 
musical instruments. 

The Manchester Exhibition framed a particu¬ 
larly rare spectacle: — 

Manchester. 

My dear Elizabeth, — We are now at Old 
Trafford, close by the Palace of Art Treasures, 
which we have come here expressly to see. There 
is no confusion, no noise, no rudeness of any kind, 
though there are thousands of the second-class 
people there every day. If you shut your eyes, 
you only hear the low thunder of movement. . . . 
Yesterday we were all there, and met — now, 
whom do you think ? Even Tennyson. He is 
the most picturesque of men, very handsome and 
careless-looking, with a wide-awake hat, a black 
beard, round shoulders, and slouching gait; most 
romantic, poetic, and interesting. He was in the 
saloons of the ancient masters. Was not that 
33i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

rare luck for us ? Is it not a wonder that we 
should meet ? His voice is also deep and musi¬ 
cal, his hair wild and stormy. He is clearly the 
“love of love and hate of hate,” and “in a golden 
clime was born.” He is the Morte d’Arthur, 
In Memoriam, and Maud. He is Mariana in the 
moated grange. He is the Lady Clara Vere de 
Vere and “ rare, pale Margaret.” There is a fine 
bust of him in the exhibition, and a beautiful one 
of Wordsworth. . . . Ary Scheffers Magdalen, 
when Christ says, “ Mary ! ” is the greatest pic¬ 
ture of his I have ever seen. Ary Scheffer him¬ 
self was at the exhibition the other day. . . . 

Again Mr. Hawthorne, Una, and I were at the 
Palace all day. We went up into the gallery of 
engraving to listen to the music ; and suddenly 
Una exclaimed, “ Mamma! there is Tennyson ! ” 
He was sitting by the organ, listening to the 
orchestra. He had a child with him, a little boy, 
in whose emotions and impressions he evidently 
had great interest; and I presumed it was his son. 
I was soon convinced that I saw also his wife and 
another little son, — and all this proved true. It 
was charming to watch the group. Mrs. Tenny¬ 
son had a sweet face, and the very sweetest smile 
I ever saw; and when she spoke to her husband 
or listened to him, her face showered a tender, 
happy rain of light. She was graceful, too, and 
gentle, but at the same time had a slightly pea¬ 
sant air. . . . The children were very pretty and 
picturesque, and Tennyson seemed to love them 
immensely. He devoted himself to them, and 
332 


ENGLISH DAYS 


was absorbed in their interest. In him is a care¬ 
less ease and a noble air which show him of the 
gentle blood he is. He is the most romantic-look¬ 
ing person. His complexion is brim , and he looks 
in ill health and has a hollow line in his cheeks. 
. . . Allingham, another English poet, told Mr. 
Hawthorne that his wife was an admirable one 
for him, — wise, tender, and of perfect temper ; 
and she looks all this; and there is a kind of ado¬ 
ration in her expression when she addresses him. 
If he is moody and ill, I am sure she must be a 
blessed solace to him. When he moved to go, we 
also moved, and followed him and his family faith¬ 
fully. By this means we saw him stop at his own 
photograph, to show it to his wife and children ; 
and then I heard them exclaim in sweet voices, 
“ That is papa! ” Passing a table where cata¬ 
logues were sold, ... his youngest son stopped 
with the maid to buy one, while Tennyson and 
his wife went on and downstairs. So then I 
seized the youngest darling with gold hair, and 
kissed him to my heart’s content; and he smiled 
and seemed well pleased. And I was well pleased 
to have had in my arms Tennyson’s child. After 
my raid I went on. . . . 

Of this glimpse of the great poet fortunately 
accorded to our family my father writes in the 
“ Note-Books : ” “ Gazing at him with all my eyes, 
I liked him very well, and rejoiced more in him than 
in all the other wonders of the exhibition.” Again 
my mother refers to the interesting experience: —* 
333 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

My dear Elizabeth, — My last letter I had 
not time to even double up myself, as Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne was booted and spurred for Liverpool 
before I was aware, and everything was huddled 
up in a hasty manner. It was something about 
Tennyson’s family that I was saying. I wanted 
you to know how happy and loving they all 
seemed together. As Tennyson is in very ill 
health, very shy and moody, I had sometimes 
thought his wife might look worn and sad. I was 
delighted, therefore, to see her serene and sweet 
face. I cannot say, however, that there was no 
solicitude in it, but it was a solicitude entirely 
penetrated with satisfied tenderness. . . . 

I did not reply to your last long letter to me 
about slavery. . . . There is not a single person 
whom I know or ever talked with who advocates 
slavery. Your letters to me would be far more 
appropriate to a slaveholder. ... I do not see 
how they apply to me at all. . . . 

There has been the customary misinterpretation 
of calm justice in the case of my father’s mode¬ 
ration during the wild ardor of abolition. This 
sort of ardor is very likely necessary in great up¬ 
heavals, but it is not necessary that every indi¬ 
vidual should join the partisans (while they slash 
somewhat promiscuously) at the expense of his 
own merciful discretion. My mother writes in 
eloquent exposition of her husband’s and her own 
loyalty to the highest views in regard to the rela¬ 
tions of all members of the human family, but 
334 


ENGLISH DAYS 


she never convinced the hot fidelity of the corre¬ 
spondents of her own household. I will add a 
letter and note, from Hawthorne to Miss Peabody, 
partly upon this subject : — 

Liverpool, August 13th, ’57. 

Dear E., — I return this manuscript pamphlet 
on the Abolition question, for I do not choose to 
bother Sophia with it ; and yet should think it a 
pity to burn so much of your thought and feeling. 
You had better publish it. I speak trustingly, 
though not knowingly, of its merits ; for to tell 
you the truth, I have read only the first line or 
two, not expecting much benefit even were I to 
get the whole by heart. No doubt it seems the 
truth of truth to you; but I do assure you that, 
like every other Abolitionist, you look at matters 
with an awful squint, which distorts everything 
within your line of vision ; and it is queer, though 
natural, that you think everybody squints, except 
yourselves. Perhaps they do ; but certainly you 
do. 

As regards Goodrich’s accounts of the relations 
between him and me, it is funny enough to see 
him taking the airs of a patron ; but I do not mind 
it in the least, nor feel the slightest inclination to 
defend myself, or be defended. I should as soon 
think of controverting his statement about my 
personal appearance (of which he draws no very 
lovely picture) as about anything else that he says. 
So pray do not take up the cudgels on my behalf; 
especially as I perceive that your recollections 
335 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


are rather inaccurate. For instance, it was Park 
Benjamin, not Goodrich, who cut up the “ Story¬ 
teller.” As for Goodrich, I have rather a kindly 
feeling towards him, and he himself is a not 
unkindly man, in spite of his propensity to feed 
and fatten himself on better brains than his own. 
Only let him do that, and he will really sometimes 
put himself to some trouble to do a good-natured 
act. His quarrel with me was, that I broke away 
from him before he had quite finished his meal, 
and while a portion of my brain was left; and I 
have not the slightest doubt that he really felt 
himself wronged by my so doing. Really, I half 
think so too. He was born to do what he did, as 
maggots to feed on rich cheese. 

Sophia has enjoyed herself much for some 
months past, and enjoyment seems to agree with 
her constitution, for her health and vigour have 
been very satisfactory. Neither did I ever have 
a better time in my life, than during our recent 
tours in England and Scotland. Between us, we 
might write an immense book of travels. I have 
six or seven volumes of journals, written during 
my residence in England; but unfortunately, it is 
written with so free and truth-telling a pen that I 
never shall dare to publish it. Perhaps parts of it 
shall be read to you, some winter evening, after we 
get home; but I entirely yield the palm to Sophia 
on the score of fullness and accuracy of description. 
[Considerably more of the letter is cut off, and the 
following fragment of another letter is pasted over 
a portion of the first.] 


336 


ENGLISH DAYS 


Liverpool, October 8th, ’57. 

Dear E., — I read your manuscript Abolition 
pamphlet, supposing it to be a new production, and 
only discovered afterwards that it was the one I 
had sent back. Upon my word, it is not very 
good; not worthy of being sent three times across 
the ocean ; not so good as I supposed you would 
always write, on a subject in which your mind and 
heart were interested. However, since you make 
a point of it, I will give it to Sophia, and will tell 
her all about its rejection and return. 

Pictures of Leamington and its vicinity were 
sent home, as follows : — 

No. 10 Lansdowne Circus, Leamington, 
Warwickshire, September 9, 1857. 

My dear Elizabeth, — Do not suppose that 
we are among horses, mountebanks, and clowns 
by my date. On the contrary, we are in a charm¬ 
ing little paradise of gardens, with a park in the 
centre, towards which all these gardens converge. 
It is such a paradise as the English only know 
how to make out of any given flat bit of land. 
Fancy a circle of houses at the end of a street. 
They are white stucco houses, with balconies lead¬ 
ing out of the drawing-rooms, in which to sit and 
enjoy the gardens, made up of sunny green lawns, 
bright rainbow flowers, and dark green shrubbery 
and trees. The park is full of lovely trees and 
evergreens, with lawns and gravel-walks. We are 
in profound quiet. Nothing but a bird’s note ever 
337 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

breaks our stillness. The air is full of mignonette, 
roses, and wallflowers. It is autumn; but the grass 
and foliage are like those of early spring or sum¬ 
mer. 

In Manchester, which we have lately visited, I 
found that the foul air of the manufactories made 
me cough more, and the moment Mr. Hawthorne 
perceived it, he decided to come away. Nothing 
but the Palace of Art would ever have made us 
think of being one hour in such a nasty old ugly 
place. I could never be weary of looking at some 
of the masterpieces, to the end of my days. I 
should think the Good Shepherd would convert 
the Jew, Baron L. R., to Christianity ; for it is his. 
No words can possibly do justice to that, or to the 
Madonna in Glory. . . . 

September 12. To-day we went to Kenilworth. 
There was not blue sky enough to encourage Mr. 
Hawthorne at first; but at eleven o’clock we set 
forth in very good sunshine, and delicious air. By 
a short turn out of our Circus we came into a street 
called Regent’s Grove, on account of a lovely 
promenade between noble trees for a very long 
distance, almost to the railroad station ; and Una 
and I walked that way, leaving Mr. Hawthorne 
and Julian to follow, as we wished to saunter. 
They overtook us, having gone down the Parade, 
which is the principal street, containing hotels and 
shops; and it crosses at right angles Warwick 
Street, which reaches for several miles, until it 
arrives at Warwick Castle itself. 

The bright greens of England seem to be lined 
33S 


ENGLISH DAYS 


with gold; and in the autumn, the leaves merely 
turn their golden linings. 

The approach to the domain of Kenilworth is 
through roads with trees, winding along, and also 
across a narrow river, which we should call a 
brook, glimpses of the castle towers appearing at 
every turn. 

The grass was very wet, and I had no india- 
rubbers, and Mr. Hawthorne went off with Una 
to buy me some, being resolved to make them, I 
believe, if he could not find any in the only shop 
not explored, for we had already tried for them. 
He returned with the only pair in Kenilworth that 
would fit me — and the last pair the shopman had 
left in his box. . . . The ivy, after climbing up 
the sides of the Castle in a diffusive embrace, 
reaches the crumbling battlements; and to con¬ 
ceal the gnawing teeth of time there, it rises into 
perfect trees, full and round, where it does not 
find it lovelier to trail over and hang in festoons 
and wreaths and tassels. Ivy and time contend 
for the mastery, and have a drawn battle of it. 
Enormous hawthorn-trees, large as our largest 
horse-chestnuts, also abound around the Castle, 
and are now made rich and brilliant with scarlet 
haws. Mr. Hawthorne and I were filled with 
amazement at their size. Instead of the rich silk 
hangings which graced the walls when Elizabeth 
entered the banqueting-room, now waved the long 
wreaths of ivy, and instead of gold borders, was 
sunshine, and for music and revel — silence — 
profound, not even a breeze breaking it. For we 
339 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

had again one of those brooding, still days which 
we have so often been fortunate enough to have 
among ruined castles and abbeys. Bare stone 
seats are still left around Elizabeth’s boudoir, upon 
which, when softly cushioned with gold, she sat, 
and saw a fair prospect. The park and chase ex¬ 
tended twenty miles ! 

Nothing but music can ever equal or surpass 
architecture in variety of utterance. Music is 
poetry to the ear, architecture to the eye, and 
poetry is music and architecture to the soul, for 
it can reproduce both. Music, however, seems to 
be freer from all shackles than any other art; and 
I remember that in one of my essays for Mar¬ 
garet Fuller, I made it out to my own satisfaction 
to be the apex of expression. The old Glasgow 
verger of whom I wrote you had not got so far as 
to see that it needed.the “ Kist of Whistles,” as he 
called the organ, to make his beloved Cathedral 
soar and glow with life and praise to its utmost 
capacity. But I cannot say that it does not sing, 
even without a sound, in its immortal curves, as 
Ruskin calls those curves that return in no con¬ 
ceivable time or space. Cathedrals sing, and they 
also pray , with pointed arches for folded hands. 
Julian liked these ruins better than any he had 
seen, he said; and he climbed up on the disman¬ 
tled turret of Leicester’s buildings, and settled 
himself among the ivy like some rare bird with 
wonderful eyes. His hair had grown very long, 
and clustered round his head in hyacinthine fash¬ 
ion, and I think my lord would have been glad to 
34o 


ENGLISH DAYS 


call him his princely boy. [Such things he never 
allowed himself to say.] All the princeliness 
that lies in clustering curls Julian has lost to-day, 
for a hair-dresser has cropped him like a Puritan. 

As for myself, fine weather, flower-filled lanes, 
sturdy walks, and the zest of environs that aroused 
the rest of the family through association as well 
as loveliness, seemed to awaken in my mind a 
vivid era that was exciting if laborious. I had 
night-vigils which were delightfully entertained 
by a faculty for hearing quite splendid music, — 
music that my imagination composed with a full 
orchestra of admirable brilliancy ; and I was also 
able to see in perfect distinctness a splendid ba¬ 
zaar, filled with any quantity of toys, which I could 
summon at will. But this pastime required a 
great deal of will-power, a peculiar subtlety of 
condition, and could only be kept up for a few 
moments at a time; and in the course of several 
months the charming capacity was modified to 
that of being able to evoke most clearly scenes 
where imaginary characters, more real than actual 
companions, leaped into being, and talked and 
moved to any extent. I suppose numbers of peo¬ 
ple have this faculty, and it is a sovereign protec¬ 
tion against ennui; or would be, if remedies could 
always be relied upon. I mention these matters 
to prove that I moderately possessed artistic per¬ 
ception. I can see, nevertheless, quite well, that 
I must have been a very stupid child most of the 
time, and that the befogged state of my mind was 
34i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

certainly a pity and perhaps a shame. Yet there 
was a sort of advantage in it: fogs choose with 
much good sense what they will emphasize ; and 
the intellect bereft of fussy clearness may have a 
startling grasp that reminds one of occult meth¬ 
ods. My observations could not pretend to so 
much, but they caught truths not very often 
stared into capture by a little girl; and my father 
interested me more, and was more frequently the 
subject of my meditations, than any one else. 

In Leamington there seemed to be some oppor¬ 
tunity for quiet pursuits. In the first place, there 
were great preparations for Christmas; which 
means, that my sister Una made a few little hand¬ 
worked presents in complete secrecy, and there 
was a breathless spending of a few sixpences. If 
a good deal of money was used by my parents, it 
was never distributed with freedom, but for those 
luxuries which would gather the least rust; and 
not a little was exchanged for heavenly treasure 
itself, in charity that answered appeals too pathetic 
to disregard. And we children learned—though 
we did not learn to save money, because our 
parents could not—to go without the luxuries 
money oftenest brings; a lesson that comes to 
happy fruition in maturer life, if there is need of 
it. I say happy, because we look back with joy to 
the hours spent in toughening the sinews of endur¬ 
ance. I remember that long and Penelope-like 
were my own Christmas preparations ; but what 
they evolved is a matter as lost to thought as a 
breeze on the desert, in spite of the clearness with 
342 


ENGLISH DAYS 


which I remember the gifts from my sister and 
our genteel Nurse, Fanny, who was with us again, 
and shone more sweetly than ever in Leaming¬ 
ton. The handsomest objects we had were given 
us by Fanfan, or Fancy, as my mother called her. 
My mother writes, “Our Twelfth Cake was a 
superb little illuminated Book of Ruth, which 
never can be eaten up, and will be a joy forever to 
all our posterity after us, and to our contempora¬ 
ries.” 

I will insert here an account of how perfect the 
smoothness of English mechanism may be : — 

13 Charles Street, Bath. 

My dear Elizabeth, — We asked the porter 
at the depot to tell us of a good hotel, and he 
sent us to York House. After being deposited 
in it, with our stones round our necks (as I call 
our luggage), we found it was not only the first 
hotel in Bath, but one famous throughout the 
land. A terrible fear came over me that a year’s 
income would scarcely defray our expenses even 
for one day and night; but as we did not ar¬ 
rive till five, we could not leave till the next day. 
So we had nothing to do but to take it grandly. 
We were put in possession of a lordly sitting- 
room, hung with crimson. There was nothing 
gaudy, but a solid richness. Papa and Mamma 
were the Duke and Duchess of Maine [in remem¬ 
brance of a lordly claim at Raymond], Julian was 
Lord Waldo, and Una, Lady Raymond. The 
finest cut crystal, and knives and forks with solid 
343 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

silver handles, and spoons too heavy to lift easily, 
delicate rose and gold china, and an entire service 
of silver dishes, came upon the table. Our at¬ 
tendants were the Sublime and the Pensive, in 
the form of two men. The Sublime had a bosom 
full of linen lilies in peculiarly wide bloom ; while 
the Pensive was adorned rather with snowdrops. 
Their footfalls were descending snowflakes, their 
manners devout, solemn, and stately. It was 
really quite delicious, just for a short time; and it 
was impossible not to be convinced that we at 
least came over with William the Conqueror; or 
we might be descended in a straight line from 
Prince Bladud, who flourished in Bath eight hun¬ 
dred years before the Christian era. At all events, 
we were the noblest in the land, and received the 
salaams of the Sublime and the Pensive as obvi¬ 
ously due to our exalted rank. As I looked at 
my husband, so kingly in aspect by nature, of 
such high courtesy in manner ; and at Una, 
princesslike, with her sweet dignity, I did not at 
all wonder at the stolen glances of our waiters; 
that looking without looking for which a thorough¬ 
bred English waiter is so remarkable. Lord Waldo 
also “ bore it well; ” and as to the Lady Rose, 
she might have bloomed in a royal conservatory. 
Sumptuous wax candles, in richly chased silver 
candlesticks, lighted us up in the evening. When¬ 
ever I left the sitting-room for my chamber, the 
Sublime was suddenly at the door to open and 
shut it for me, bowing down with all his lilies. 

Ah, me! But how can I describe the York 
344 


ENGLISH DAYS 


House table! Such Apician food, so delicately 
touched with fire ! And who can ever sing ade¬ 
quately the graceful curves in which the Pensive 
swept off the covers, at the sound of some inau¬ 
dible music — inaudible except to his ear — as 
soon as we were all seated ! I felt so grand that 
I was ready to shout with laughter — having gone 
full circle from the sublime to the ridiculous sev¬ 
eral times. I felt the ducal coronet on my brow, 
flashing fine flames from diamonds and emeralds. 
His Grace’s diadem put my eyes out (as it often 
does, even when not in York House, and we not 
all in full dress). The weather was dull and cold, 
and a glorious fire blazed in the large grate, fed 
and tended by a third noiseless apparition, the 
Soft f in the shape of a boy, who gently deposited 
black boulders of coal without raising any dust, 
and with a brush delicately invited away the ashes 
from the bars and the hearth, and poked as one 
would kiss a sleeping babe. The eyes of the 
Soft did not wander; they were kept snug be¬ 
neath their lids with well-trained reverence; and 
this genius of the fire always appeared as soon as 
the glow began to fade, as if by inspiration. In 
my large chamber, draped with white muslin over 
rose color and drab damask, a superb fire glowed. 
I must make an end of this nonsense. 

The next day I drove about Bath to get apart¬ 
ments, — the first hour in vain; and everybody 
said the city was full, and we should not succeed. 
The children cried out to stay in York House, 
enjoying the luxury. But again I took a Bath 
345 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

chair, and with Fanny the nurse at my side to 
talk for me, and Rosebud to look out for signs of 
“To Let,” we tried again, and found this modest 
house ; where, such is the simplicity of my na¬ 
ture, I am ten times as comfortable and at home 
as at even York House, with its shaded grandeur. 
Yet I am very fond of splendor, I have to con¬ 
fess ; and, moreover, our surprise was great when, 
upon demanding the account, the Sublime brought 
on a silver salver charges actually more mod¬ 
erate than those of many inferior hotels all about 
England. 

I will proceed here with our visit to Redcar, 
though that occurred in 1859, when we had re¬ 
turned from Rome. 

Redcar is in the midst of a stately region, grand 
with an outline of hard-bosomed, endless beach 
and vast sky, of sea and sand-hills, where my father 
stands forth very distinctly in my memory. When 
he went out at fixed hours of the day, between the 
hours for writing, he walked over the long, long 
beach, and very often with my brother and myself ; 
stopping now and then in his firm, regal tread to 
look at what nature could do in far-stretching 
color and beckoning horizon line. Along the sand¬ 
hills, frolicking in the breeze or faithfully clinging 
in the strong wind to their native thimbleful of 
earth, hung the cerulean harebells, to which I ar¬ 
dently clambered, listening for their chimes. In 
the preface to “ Monte Beni,” the compliment paid 
to Redcar is well hidden. My father speaks of 
346 


ENGLISH DAYS 


reproducing the book (sketched out among the 
dreamy interests of Florence) “ on the broad and 
dreary sands of Redcar, with the gray German 
Ocean tumbling in upon me, and the northern 
blast always howling in my ears.” Nothing could 
have pleased him better as an atmosphere for his 
work; all that the atmosphere included he did not 
mean to admit, just then. And London was not 
so very far away. 

On September 9, 1859, my mother says in her 
diary, “ My husband gave me his manuscript to 
read.” There are no other entries on that day or 
the next, except, “ Reading manuscript.” On the 
nth she says, “ Reading manuscript for the sec¬ 
ond time.” The diary refers to reading the manu¬ 
script on the third day, but on the two following 
days, in which she was to finish as much of the 
romance as was ready, there are wholly blank 
spaces. These mean more than words to me, who 
know so well how she never set aside daily rules, 
and how unbrokenly her little diaries flow on. 
She writes home : — 

“ Mr. Hawthorne has about finished his book. 
More than four hundred pages of manuscripts are 
now in the hands of the publishers. I have read 
as much as that, but do not yet know the denoue¬ 
ment. He is very well, and in very good spirits, 
despite all his hard toil of so many months. As 
usual, he thinks the book good for nothing, and 
based upon a very foolish idea which nobody will 
like or accept. But I am used to such opinions, 
and understand why he feels oppressed with dis- 
347 , 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

gust of what has so long occupied him. The true 
judgment of the work was his first idea of it, when 
it seemed to him worth the doing. He has regu¬ 
larly despised each one of his books immediately 
upon finishing it. My enthusiasm is too much his 
own music, as it were. It needs the reverberation 
of the impartial mind to reassure him that he has 
not been guilty of a betise. 

“Mr. Hawthorne had no idea of portraying me 
in Hilda. Whatever resemblance one sees is ac¬ 
cidental.” 

On November 8 (we were then in Leamington 
once more) she records in very large script, “ My 
husband to-day finished his book , ‘ The Romance 
of Monte Beni/ ” 

My mother was especially fortunate in finding 
the smallest rose-tinted and most gleaming among 
the shells which we came across upon the sands, 
and of these a few superlative but almost invisible 
specimens were long the cherished possession of 
her English work-box. She often went with me 
to the sands, spending much time there; her diary 
saying: “ Superb, calm day. I went on sands 
with Rosebud to gather shells. Stayed three 
hours.” Or: “Most superb day possible. I went 
on the sands with Rose, and sat all the morning in 
a sand-chair, reading, while Rose played. It was 
a divine day ; the air like rose petals, the sky ceru¬ 
lean, the sea sapphire. I felt so serene and quiet; 
— a great calm.” Then comes the inevitable con¬ 
trast : “ Tremendous sea. Rose and I went on the 
sands to gather shells.” These shells, which we 
348 


ENGLISH DAYS 


could none of us find in so perfect a state as my 
mother could, were object-lessons to me in the 
refinements of art, as the harebells were in the 
refinements of nature; for were not the dancing 
flowers alive, and the stirless shells the passive 
work of thought ? 

Sometimes she read Disraeli’s “ Sibyl/’ while I 
built a sand fortress round her; or she read “ Ve- 
netia,” “ Oliver Twist,” “The Life of Mary II.,” 
“ Romany Rye,” and “ The Lives of the Last Four 
Popes.” She remembered Pio Nono with unflag¬ 
ging interest, and mentions his serious illness, and 
then his recovery. She read “ a queer biography 
of Wordsworth by Hood,” and she regarded Car¬ 
lyle’s diction in the “French Revolution” as 
“ rubbishy.” 

Besides the pilgrimages in search of shells, an¬ 
other pursuit was inaugurated by my mother, in 
her breathlessly calm way, which was the finding 
of multitudinous seaweeds of every eccentricity 
of style. The Yankee elm, the English oak, the 
kitchen-garden herb, or Italian stone-pine, the 
fern, and tresses, as they seemed, of women’s fair 
or dusky hair, were all so cleverly imitated by the 
seaweeds that one might have supposed them to 
be the schoolbooks of the sea ; or the latest news 
there, regarding the nature of the dry world. 
Many spare moments were given to mounting 
these pretty living pictures of growths. My lack 
of success in producing a single very neat spe¬ 
cimen was, I grieve to admit, hardly bettered by 
any of us ; my father joining in the scientific ex- 
349 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

cess only so far as to turn his luminous eyes upon 
our enthusiasm, with his genial “ h’m-m ” of per¬ 
mission. 

Excursions were made to Whitby, Wilton Cas¬ 
tle, and other places; and I made an excursion on 
my own account, which kept me lame for some 
time. “ Rose fell and hurt her knees and elbow, 
following a monkey.” But my most considerate 
mother would never have let me perceive the 
humorous and possibly unintelligent aspect of my 
adventurous spirit; and the next day she tenderly 
inscribes the historical fact, “ Poor baby lame.” 

Here are a few words of testimony, from my 
sister, to the charm of this shore: — 

Redcar, October 4, 1859. 

Our last day in Redcar, dearest aunt Lizzie; 
and a most lovely one it is. The sea seems to 
reproach us for leaving it. But I am glad we are 
going, for I feel so homesick that I want constant 
change to divert my thoughts. How troublesome 
feelings and affections are ! When one ought to 
forget, they are strongest. 

Your loving niece, 

U. H. 

I thought that the petty lodging in which we 
were established was an odd nook for my father 
to be in. I liked to get out with him upon the 
martial plain of sand and tremendous waves, where 
folly was not, by law of wind and light of Titan 
power, and where the most insignificant ornament 
35o 


ENGLISH DAYS 


was far from insignificant: the whorl of an exqui¬ 
site shell, beautiful and still, as if just dead; or 
the seaweeds, that are so like pictures of other 
growths. I felt that this scene was a worthy one 
for the kind but never familiar man who walked 
and reflected there. We enjoyed a constant out¬ 
door life. But in those uninspired hours when 
there was no father in sight, and my mother was 
resting in seclusion, I played at grocer’s shop on 
the sands with a little girl called Hannah, whom 
I then despised for her name, her homely neat 
clothes, her sweetness and silence, and in retro¬ 
spect learned to love. As we pounded brick, 
secured sugary-looking sands of different tints, 
and heaped up minute pebbles, a darkly clad, 
tastefully picturesque form would approach, — a 
form to which I bowed down in spirit as, fortu¬ 
nately for me, my father. He would look askance 
at my utterly useless, time-frittering amusement, 
which I already knew was withering my brain and 
soul. In his tacit reproach my small intellect 
delighted, and loftier thoughts than those of the 
counter would refresh me for the rest of the day; 
and I thankfully returned to the heights and 
lengths of wide nature, full of color and roaring 
waves. 


3Si 


CHAPTER XII 


ITALIAN DAYS : I 

My first frequent companionship with my fa' 
-ther began in Italy, when I was seven years old. 
We entered Rome after a long, wet, cold carriage 
journey that would have disillusionized a DorA 
.As we jolted along, my mother held me in her 
.arms, while I slept as much as I could; and 
when I could not, I blessed the patient, weary 
: bosom upon which I lay exhausted. It was a 
solemn-faced load of Americans which shook and 
shivered into the city of memories that night. In 
“ Monte Beni,” as he preferred to call “The Mar¬ 
ble Faun,” my father speaks of Rome with min- 
igled contempt for its discomforts and delighted 
heartiness for its outshining fascinations. “ The 
.desolation of her ruin ” does not prevent her from 
being “more intimately our home than even the 
spot where we were bom.” A ruin or a picture 
■could not satisfy his heart, which accepted no yoke 
less strong than spiritual power. Rome supplies 
tthe most telling evidence of human failure, because 
she is the theatre of the greatest human effort, 
‘both in the ranks of Satan and of God ; and she 
visibly mourns her sins of mistake at the feet of 
spiritual victory, Saints Peter and Paul. (As a 
Catholic, I could hardly win the respect of the 
352 


ITALIAN DAYS 


gentle reader if I were so un-American as to fear 
to stand by my belief.) And while the observer 
in Rome may well feel sad in the midst of remind¬ 
ers of the enormous sins of the past, there is an 
uplifting, for the soul eager to perceive the truth, 
in all her assurances of that mercy which is the 
cause of religion. If the Holy See was established 
in Rome because it was the city where the worst 
wickedness upon earth, because the most intelli¬ 
gent, was to be found, we may conclude that the 
old emperors, stormy and grotesque, are respon¬ 
sible for its melancholy “atmosphere of sin/' to 
which Hilda alludes as a condition of the whole 
planet; and not the popes who have prayed in 
Rome, nor the people who believe there. In 
printed remarks about Italy both my parents say 
that she most reminds them of what is highest. 

But, whether chilly or warm, the Eternal City 
did not at once make a conquest of my father’s 
allegiance, though before he bade it farewell, 
it had painted itself upon his mind as sometimes 
the sunniest and most splendid habitation for a 
populace, that he knew. In the spring my sis¬ 
ter wrote : — 

“We are having perfectly splendid weather 
now, — unclouded Italian skies, blazing sun, every¬ 
thing warm and glorious. But the sky is too 
blue, the sun is too blazing, everything is too 
vivid. Often I long for the more cloudy skies 
and peace of that dear, beautiful England. Rome 
makes us all languid. We have to pay a fear¬ 
ful price for the supreme enjoyment there is in 
353 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

standing on the very spots made interesting by 
poetry or by prose, imagination, or (which is still 
more absorbing) truth. Sometimes I wish there 
had never been anything done or written in the 
world ! My father and I seem to feel in this way 
more than the rest. We agree about Rome as 
we did about England.” 

In the course of the winter my mother had 
written of our chilly reception thus : — 

No. 37 Via Porta Pinciana, 2D Piano, 
Palazzo Larazani, Rome. 

My dear Elizabeth, — I could not have be¬ 
lieved I could be in Rome a day without announ¬ 
cing it to you in words and expressions which 
would have the effect at least of the bell of St. 
Peter’s or the cannon of St. Angelo. . . . But my 
soul has been iced over, as well as the hitherto 
flowing fountains of the Piazza di San Pietro. I 
have not been able to expand like corn and 
melons under a summer sun. Nipped have been 
all my blossoming hopes and enthusiasms, and my 
hands have been too numb to hold a pen. Added 
to this, Mr. Hawthorne has had the severest cold 
he ever had, because bright, keen cold he cannot 
bear so well as damp ; and Rosebud has not been 
well since she entered the city. It is colder than 
for twenty years before. We find it enormously 
expensive to live in Rome; our apartment is 
twelve hundred a year. 

But I am in Rome, Rome, Rome! I have 
stood in the Forum and beneath the Arch of 
354 


ITALIAN DAYS 


Titus, at the end of the Sacra Via. I have 
wandered about the Coliseum, the stupendous 
grandeur of which equals my dream and hope. I 
have seen the sun kindling the open courts of the 
Temple of Peace, where Sarah Clarke said, years 
ago, that my children would some time play. (It 
is now called Constantine’s Basilica.) I have 
climbed the Capitoline and stood before the Capi¬ 
tol, by the side of the equestrian statue of Marcus 
Aurelius, — the finest in the world [my father calls 
it “the most majestic representation of kingly 
character that ever the world has seen ”], — once 
in front of the Arch of Septimius Severus. I 
have been into the Pantheon, whose sublime 
portico quietly rises out of the region of criticism 
into its own sphere, —a fit entrance to the temple 
of all the gods. How wise was the wise and tact- 
gifted Augustus to reject the homage of Agrippa, 
who built it for his apotheosis, and to dedicate it 
to the immortal gods! It is now dedicated to the 
Immortal God. 

And I have been to St. Peter’s ! There alone 
in Rome is perpetual summer. You have heard 
of the wonderful atmosphere of this world of a 
basilica. It would seem to be warmed by the 
ardent soul of Peter, or by the breath of prayer 
from innumerable saints. One drops the hermet- 
ical seal of a curtain behind, upon entering, and 
behold, with the world is also shut out the bitter 
cold, and one is folded, as it were, in a soft man¬ 
tle of down, as if angels wrapped their wings 
about us. I expanded at once under the invisible 
355 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

sun. There have been moments when I have 
felt the spell of Rome, but every one says here 
that it dawns gradually upon the mind. It would 
not have been so with me, I am convinced, if I 
had been warm. Who ever heard of an icicle 
glowing with emotion ? What is Rome to a 
frozen clod ? . . . 

We were not able to seize upon the choicest 
luxuries of living, as our accommodations, even 
such as they were, proved to be expensive enough 
to hamper us. We had all expected to be bliss¬ 
ful in Italy, and so the inartistic and inhuman ac¬ 
cessories of life were harder to bear there than 
elsewhere. I remember a perpetual rice pudding 
(sent in the tin ten-story edifices which caterers 
supply laden with food), of which the almost daily 
sight maddened us, and threw us into a Burton’s 
melancholy of silence, for nothing could prevent 
it from appearing. We all know what such sim¬ 
ple despairs can do, and, by concerted movement, 
they can make Rome tame. If we had sustained 
ourselves on milk, like Romulus and Remus, and 
dressed in Russian furs, we might have had fewer 
vicissitudes in the midst of the classic wonders 
on all sides. But spring was faithful, and at its 
return we began to enjoy the scenes of most note 
within and beyond the walls : the gleaming ruins, 
and fresh, uncontaminated daisies that trustfully 
throve beside some of them ; the little fountains, 
with their one-legged or flat-nosed statues strut¬ 
ting ineffectually above them, — fountains either 
356 


ITALIAN DAYS 


dry as dead revelers or tinkling a pathetic sob 
into a stone trough ; the open views where the 
colors of sunlit marble and the motions of dan¬ 
cing light surrounded the peasants who sprang up 
from the ground like belated actors in a drama 
we only keep with us out of childish delight. 

My father had never looked so serious as he did 
now, and he was more slim than in England. He 
impressed me as permeated by an atmosphere of 
perception. A magnetic current of sympathy 
with the city rendered him contemplative and 
absorbent as a cloud. He was everywhere, but 
only looked in silence, so far as I was aware. “ The 
Marble Faun ” shows what he thought in sen¬ 
tences that reveal, like mineral specimens, strata 
of ideas stretching far beyond the confines of 
the novel. While he observed Rome, as he fre¬ 
quently mentions, he felt the sadness of the pro¬ 
blems of the race which there were brought to a 
focus. Yet it is a singular fact that, notwith¬ 
standing this regret for her human pathos, per¬ 
haps the best book he ever wrote was created 
among the suggestive qualities of this haven of 
faith, — the book which inculcates the most ster¬ 
ling hope of any of his works. I saw in my 
walks with him how much he enjoyed the salable 
treasures and humble diversions of the thorough¬ 
fare, as his readers have always perceived. In¬ 
genuous simplicity, freedom from self-conscious¬ 
ness and whitewash, frank selfishness on a plane 
so humble that it can do little harm, — all this is 
amusing and restful after long hours with tran- 
357 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

scendental folk. In regard to the tenets of these, 
my mother writes to her sister : — 

“I am just on the point of declaring that I 
hate transcendentalism, because it is full of im¬ 
moderate dicta which would disorganize society, 
and should never be uttered, in my opinion, ex¬ 
cept behind the veil, among priests. As to dis¬ 
playing before the great, innocent eyes of a girl 
like Una all the horror of a slave-auction — a 
convent is better than such untimely revelations. 
Now, you must not think I am a Catholic. I 
know the Lord withholds the pure from seeing 
what they should not — blessed be the Lord ! — 
but I will not be the one to put what should not 
be seen before the eyes of the pure.” 

My father looked in good spirits as we moved 
along. When he trafficked with an Italian fruit- 
vender, and put a few big hot chestnuts into his 
pocket, with a smile for me, I (who found his 
smile the greatest joy in the world) was persuaded 
that really fine things were being done. The 
slender copper piece which was all-sufficient for 
the transaction not only thrilled the huckster with 
delight, but became precious to me as my father’s 
supple, broad fingers held it, dark, thin, small, in 
a respectful manner. He caressed it for a mo¬ 
ment with his large thumb, — he who was liberal 
as nature in June, — and when the fruit-vender 
was wrought up to the proper point of ecstasy he 
was allowed to receive the money, which he did 
with a smile of Italian gracefulness and sparkle, 
while my father looked conscious of the mirthful- 
358 


ITALIAN DAYS 


ness of the situation with as lofty a manner as 
you please. As for the peasant women we met, 
under their little light-stands of head - drapery, 
they were easily comprehensible, and expressed 
without a shadow of reserve their vanity and tiger 
blood by an openly proud smile and a swing of 
the brilliantly striped skirt. The handsomest men 
and women possible, elaborately dressed, shone 
beside tiers of the sweetest bunches of pale vio¬ 
lets, or a solitary boy, so beautiful that his human 
splendor scintillated, small as he was, sat in the 
pose and apparel that the world knows through 
pictures, and which pigment can never well ren¬ 
der any more than it can catch the power of a 
sunset or an American autumn. The marble- 
shops were very pleasant places. A whirring 
sound lulled the senses into dreamy receptive¬ 
ness, as the stone wheel heavily turned with soft 
swiftness, giving the impression that here hard 
matter was controlled to a nicety by airy forces ; 
and a fragrance floated from the wet marble 
lather, while the polishing of our newly picked up 
mementos from the ruins went on, which was as 
subtle as that of flowers. A man or two, hoary 
with marble-dust and ennobled by the “bloom” 
of it, stood tall and sad about the wheel, and we 
handed to these refined creatures our treasures 
of giallo-antico and porphyry and other marbles 
picked up “for remembrance” (and no doubt 
once pressed by a Caesar’s foot or met by a Cae¬ 
sar’s glance), in order to observe the fresh color 
leap to the surface, — yellow, red, black, or green. 

359 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Far more were we thrilled at finding scraps of 
iridescent glass lachrymals, containing all the glo¬ 
ries of Persian magnificence, while pathetically 
hinting of the tears of a Roman woman (precious 
only to herself, whatever her flatterers might 
aver) two thousand years ago. 

The heart of Rome was acknowledged to be 
St. Peter’s, and its pulse the Pope. The most 
striking effect the Holy Father produced upon 
me, standing at gaze before him with my parents, 
was when he appeared, in Holy Week, high up in 
the balcony before the mountainous dome, looking 
off over the great multitude of people gathered 
to receive his blessing. Those eyes of his car¬ 
ried expression a long way, and he looked most 
kingly, though unlike other kings. He was 
clothed in white not whiter than his wonderful 
pallor. My father implies in a remark that Pio 
Nono impressed him by a becoming sincerity of 
countenance, and this was so entirely my infantile 
opinion that I became eloquent about the Pope, 
and was rewarded by a gift from my mother of a 
little medallion of him and a gold scudo with an 
excellent likeness thereon, both always tenderly 
reverenced by me. 

Going to the Pincian Hill on Sunday after¬ 
noons, when my father quite regularly made me 
his companion, was the event of my week which 
entertained me best of all. To play a simple 
game of stones on one of the gray benches in 
the late afternoon sunshine, with him for courte¬ 
ous opponent, was to feel my eyes, lips, hands, all 
360 


ITALIAN DAYS 


my being, glow with the fullest human happiness. 
When he threw down a pebble upon one of the 
squares which he had marked with chalk, I was 
enchanted. When one game was finished, I trem¬ 
bled lest he would not go on with another. He 
was never fatigued or annoyed — outwardly. He 
had as much control over the man we saw in him 
as a sentinel on duty. Therefore he proceeded 
with the tossing of pebbles, genially though qui¬ 
etly, not exhibiting the least reluctance, and 
uttering a few amused sounds, like mellow wood- 
notes. Between the buxom groups of luxuriant 
foliage the great stream of fashion rolled by in 
carriages, the music of the well-trained band peal¬ 
ing forth upon the breeze; and in the tinted dis¬ 
tance, beyond the wall of the high-perched gar¬ 
den which surrounded us, the sunset shook out its 
pennons. Through the glinting bustle of the 
crowd and the richness of nature my father peace¬ 
fully breathed, in half-withdrawn brooding, either 
pursuing our pebble warfare with kindest stateli¬ 
ness, or strolling beside lovely plots of shadowed 
grass, fragrant from lofty trees of box. An ele¬ 
ment by no means slight in the rejoicing of my 
mind, when I was with him of a Sunday after- 
noon, was his cigar, which he puffed at very de¬ 
liberately, as if smoking were a rite. The aroma* 
was wonderful. The classicism which followed my r 
parents about in everything of course connected 
itself with my father’s chief luxury, in the form 
of a bronze match-box, given him in Rome by 
my sister, upon which an autumn scene of har- 
361 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

vest figures was modeled with Greek elegance, 
and to this we turned our eyes admiringly during 
the lighting of the cigar. There was a hunter 
returning to a home draped with the grape, bring¬ 
ing still more of that fruit, and a rabbit and bird, 
hung upon a pole, while his wife and child were 
ever so comfortably disposed upon the threshold, 
and the hunting-dog affectionately lapped the 
young matron’s hand. An autumn was also de¬ 
picted on the reverse, presumably a year earlier 
than the one just described, where two lovers 
; stood among sheaves of wheat, their sickles in 
hand, and the youth held up a bunch of grapes 
^which the maiden, down-looking, gently raised her 
.arm to receive. At last it would grow too late to 
play another game, and my father’s darkly clothed 
form would be drawn up, and his strongly beauti¬ 
ful face lifted ominously. Before leaving the hill 
we went to look over the parapet to the west, 
where stood, according to “ Monte Beni,” “ the 
grandest edifice ever built by man, painted against 
God’s loveliest sky.” Quoit-players were no doubt 
rolling their disks upon the road below us; and 
on the very first glance it almost always happened 
that a springing, vaporous-looking quoit would 
;appear without one’s seeing the man whose hand 
had sent it on its way. It was a refined pastime, 
immortalized by the Discobolus, which, however, 
cannot give the charm of the whirling quoit. 

The entries in my mother’s diary so abound in 
names and persons met day by day, names both 
unknown to the world and familiar to it, that it is 
362 


ITALIAN DAYS 


hard to understand how there was time for sight¬ 
seeing or illness, or the reading which was kept 
up. The wife of a distinguished sculptor in Rome 
afterwards said in a letter that this year of 1859 
was remarkable for its crowd of tourists, and 
added that i860 proved very quiet. It does not 
sound quiet to hear that she had just enjoyed a 
horseback ride with Mr. Browning ; but Americans 
and English certainly did have rich enjoyment in 
Italy in those days, and grew exacting. The jot¬ 
tings of the diary stir the imagination quite plea¬ 
santly, beginning January 16, 1859 : “ Mr. Brown¬ 
ing called to visit us. Delightful visit. I read 
Charlotte Bronte for the second time. — Mrs. 
Story sent a note to my husband to invite him to 
tea [my mother being housed with my sick sister] 
with Mr. Browning. — Mr. Horatio Bridge spent 
the evening. — Read ‘Frederick the Great/— Mr. 
Motley called, and brought ‘ Paradise Lost ’ for 
Una. — I went to the sunny Corso with my hus¬ 
band, who is far from well. Mrs. Story asks us 
to dine with Mr. de Vere, Lady William Russell, 
Mr. Alison, Mr. Browning, and other interesting 
people. — Lovely turquoise day. I prepared Juli¬ 
an’s Carnival dress. Went to the Hoars’ balcony, 
and the Conservatori passed in gorgeous array. 
The George Joneses took Una to drive in the 
Corso, and the Prince of Wales threw her a bou¬ 
quet from his balcony. I read the ‘Howadji in 
Syria ’ as I sat at the Hoars’ window. — I had 
a delightful visit from E. Hoar. She saw the 
Pope yesterday, and he blessed her. Mrs. Story 
363 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

looked very pretty in a carriage at the Carni¬ 
val, with a hat trimmed with a wreath of violets. 
— Mr. and Mrs. Story called for us to go to 
the Doria Villa. We had a glorious excursion, 
finding rainbow anemones and seeing wonderful 
views. Mr. Christopher Cranch joined us. — I 
went to the Vatican for the first time this year, 
with E. Hoar. We met there Mr. Hawthorne 
escorting Mrs. Pierce and Miss Vandervoort. We 
went through all the miles of sculpture. — Una 
and I called on Mrs. Pierce, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. 
Pickman, Mrs. Hoar, and met Mrs. Motley. In 
the afternoon I went with E. Hoar to Mr. Story’s 
studio. Mrs. Pickman called on me. —Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne and I and Julian went to call on Miss 
Cushman, and to Mr. Page’s studio. Mr. Motley 
had made a long call early in the day, and teased 
Mr. Hawthorne to dine with him, to meet Lord 
Spencer’s son. — Mrs. Story brought Una the 
first lilies-of-the-valley that have bloomed in Rome 
this year. I went with Rose to Trinita dei Monti 
to hear the nuns sing vespers. Coming out, I met 
Miss Harriet Hosmer. — Superb day. I went 
with my husband to call at Miss Hosmer’s studio, 
and met the Hon. Mr. Cowper, who stopped to 
talk. Mr. Browning darted upon us across the 
Piazza, glowing with cordiality. Miss Hosmer 
could not admit us, because she was modeling 
Lady Mordaunt’s nose. — Governor Seymour 
called. — I took Rose to a window in the Carni¬ 
val. It was a mad, merry time. A gentleman 
tossed me a beautiful bouquet and a bonbon. — 
364 


4 


ITALIAN DAYS 

Julian and I went to the Albani Villa with Mrs. 
Ward and Mr. Charles Sumner. A charming 
time. — In the twilight I went with Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne to the Coliseum and the Forum. It grew 
to lovely moonlight. — After dinner I went to the 
Pincian gardens with Mr. Hawthorne and Julian. 
It was moonlight. — Mr. Sumner made a long 
call.” 

Among the friends much with us was the astro¬ 
nomer, Miss Maria Mitchell, whom we had long 
known intimately. She smiled blissfully in Rome, 
as if really visiting a constellation; flashing her 
eyes with silent laughter, and curling her soft, full, 
splendid lips with fascinating expressions of satis¬ 
faction. I loved her for this, but principally be¬ 
cause, while with us in Paris, it was she who had 
with delicious comradeship introduced me to that 
perfection of all infantile taste—French ginger¬ 
bread, warm (on an outdoor counter) with the sun¬ 
shine of the skies! She had the long list of 
churches and ruins and pictures catalogued upon 
her efficient tongue, and she and my mother ran 
together like sisters to see the sights of beauty 
and reminiscence; neither of them ever tired, and 
never disappointed. Her voice was richly mellow, 
like my father’s, and her wit was the merry spray 
of deep waves of thought. The sculptor, Miss 
Harriet Hosmer, it was easy to note, charmed the 
romancer. She was cheerfulness itself, touched 
off with a jaunty cap. Her smile I remember as 
one of those very precious gleams that make us 
forget everything but the present moment. She 

365 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

could be wittily gay ; but there was plenty of brain 
power behind the clever mot> as immensities are 
at the source of the sun-ray. There was a bless¬ 
ing in the presence of Miss Elizabeth Hoar, once 
engaged to that beloved brother of Mr. Emerson 
whom death had taken. She seemed to me (I 
plead guilty to fancifulness) like a tall, speaking 
monument, composed of diamonds and pearls. 
She talked a great deal, gently, with a penetrat¬ 
ing sweetness of voice, and looking somewhat 
down, as those do who have just received the 
news of a bitter sorrow. She knew everything 
that was fine in history and poetry and art; and 
to be near her, and to catch at moments the clear 
unfaltering challenge of her sad but brave eyes, 
was to live a little nobler one’s self. 

I will give here two letters from this friend, 
showing her strength of sympathy and tender¬ 
ness : — 

Florence, May. 

Dear Sophia, —We are here after a journey 
entirely prosperous in every respect, driving 
through a country as lovely as it could be. Such 
wreaths of hawthorn, such hanging tassels of 
laburnum, such masses of delicate purple flowers 
draping the rocks and carpeting every broken 
ground, — golden broom on every hillside, scarlet 
poppies illuminating every field of grain, and the 
richest crimson clover, like endless fields of straw- 
berries, — I never saw before. We have had just 
clouds enough to make beautiful shadows on the 
mountains. How I wish you and Una could be 
366 


ITALIAN DAYS 


floated on a cloud over the charming region. I 
thought of the dear child at every new flower, but 
not without a pang; for my only disappointment 
in leaving Rome (no, the other was that I had not 
seen Mr. Browning) was that I could not send 
Una some flowers the morning of our departure. 
I had set my heart upon it, but could not find 
any pretty enough. Every fresh spray of haw¬ 
thorn on our journey renewed the prick of my 
disappointment. We should have liked to take 
Julian along with us as our traveling artist, to 
lay up the flowers for us in imperishable colors 
[he already painted flowers remarkably] ; we were 
reminded of him very often. I saw dear little 
Rose’s patron, St. Rosa, in the Staffa Gallery 
at Perugia, — very beautiful. I have much to 
thank you for, dear Sophia, in all sorts of aid and 
sympathy. Very charming is the recollection of 
every meeting with you, from the first lovely Sun¬ 
day at the Villa Doria; and then the day when 
we visited the willful Queen of Egypt as she sat 
waiting to be made again immortal in marble 
[in Story’s studio]. Those days in Rome were 
made brighter to me by the sunshine of kindness 
and a hearty sympathy, beginning with the day 
which will be an exhilarating thought to me as 
long as I live, when you showed me St. Peter’s 
Piazza under the blue sky; and then we passed 
the wall of the Capitol, and looked down upon 
ancient Rome. It was a wonderful day, Sophia, 
and I shall never forget that you received me in 
that city. I hope you will have many joyous days 

367 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


before you leave Europe, so that you may all for¬ 
get the many anxieties of the last three months. 
I wish to send my love to Mrs. Story. I enjoy 
the thought of her, and Mr. Story, very much. I 
have always loved them for their thorough kind¬ 
ness to Margaret [Fuller d’Ossoli], and now I 
have seen them I love them for themselves. 
Love and constant remembrance to Una and 
dear little Rose. You don’t know how hard it is 
not to know about you, day by day. [Later.] I 
had your other letter in Genoa, and was rejoiced 
to get it. I had driven with Lizzie and Mr. May 
the very day before from Villeneuve to Montreux 
to call upon you, the people at Hotel Byron assur¬ 
ing us you were to spend a month at Montreux. 
However, the news from Una was precious, for it 
was the first intelligence we had had since we left 
the dear child in bed in Rome, with that trickish 
fever playing about her. I did not receive the 
note from Mr. Hawthorne. I am almost glad you 
are not going to take her back into the low ground 
at Concord this autumn. . . . 

Many friends were in Rome, both as residents 
and as tourists, and in all my after-life our two 
winters there were the richest of memories, in 
regard both to personalities and exquisite objects, 
and to scenes of artistic charm. Yet, as I have 
said elsewhere, if the tall, slender figure of my 
father were not at hand, even my mother’s con¬ 
stantly cheering presence and a talkative group 
of people could not warm the imagination quite 
368 


ITALIAN DAYS 


enough. He says, in speaking of the Carnival, 
“For my part, though I pretended to take no 
interest in the matter, I could have bandied con¬ 
fetti and nosegays as readily and riotously as any 
urchin there.” These few words explain his mag¬ 
netism. The decorous pretense of his observant 
calm could not make us forget the bursts of 
mirth and vigorous abandon which now and then 
revealed the flame of unstinted life in his heart. 
And I, watching constantly as I did, saw a 
riotous throw of the confetti , a mirthful smile of 
Carnival spirits, when my father was radiant for a 
few moments with a youth’s, a faun’s merriment. 

Having quoted a letter of my sister’s which 
expresses his opinion and her own of the irksome¬ 
ness of sight-seeing, however heroic the spot, I 
will add this little paragraph from the next win¬ 
ter’s correspondence, when, though only fifteen, 
she wrote very well of Europe and America, con¬ 
cluding : “ It shows you have not lived in Europe, 
dear aunt, and do not know what it is to breathe 
day after day the atmosphere of art, that you can 
think of our being satisfied. We have seen satis¬ 
factorily, but the longer we stay, the higher and 
deeper is our enjoyment, and the more are our 
minds fitted to understand and admire, and the 
nearer do our souls approach in thought and im¬ 
agination to that fount of glory and beauty, from 
which the old artists drew so freely.” 

In art, Catholicity was utterly bowed down to 
by my relatives and their friends, because without 
it this great art would not have been. For, as 

369 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

scientists and dreamers have proved that gold 
cannot be made until we know as much as the 
earth, so uninspired artists have proved that reli¬ 
gious art can only grow under conditions known 
solely to the heart that is Catholic. Every reli¬ 
gious school of art which has departed from imi¬ 
tation of the Old Masters has forfeited holiness 
in depicting the Holy Family. 

My mothers letters describing my sister’s ill¬ 
ness with Roman fever recall the many persons of 
interest whom we saw. She writes : “ Carriages 
were constantly driving to the door with inquiries. 
People were always coming. Even dear Mrs. 
Browning, who almost never goes upstairs, came 
the moment she heard. She was like an angel. I 
saw her but a moment, but the clasp of her hand 
was electric, and her voice penetrated my heart. 
Mrs. Ward, also usually unable to go upstairs, came 
every day for five days. One day there seemed a 
cloud of good spirits in the drawing-room, Mrs. 
Ward, Mrs. Browning, Mrs. Story, and so on, all 
standing and waiting. Magnificent flowers were 
always coming, baskets and bouquets, which were 
presented with tearful eyes. The American min¬ 
ister constantly called. Mr. Aubrey de Vere came. 
Every one who had seen Una in society or any¬ 
where came to ask. Mrs. Story came three times 
in one day to talk about a consultation. The doc¬ 
tor wished all the food prepared exactly after his 
prescription, and would accept no one’s dishes. 
‘ Whose broth is this ? ’ 4 This is Mrs. Browning’s.’ 
‘ Then tell Mrs. Browning to write her poesies, and 
37o 


ITALIAN DAYS 


not to meddle with my broths for my patient!' 
‘ Whose jelly is this ? ’ ‘ Mrs. Story’s.’ ‘ I wish 

Mrs. Story would help her husband to model his 
statues, and not try to feed Miss Una ! ’ General 
Pierce came three times a day. I think I owe to 
him, almost, my husband’s life. He was divinely 
tender, sweet, sympathizing, and helpful.” She 
adds : “ No one shared my nursing, because Una 
wanted my touch and voice; and she was not 
obliged to tell me what she wanted. For days, she 
only opened her eyes long enough to see if I were 
there. For thirty days and nights I did not go to 
bed; or sleep, except in the morning in a chair, 
while Miss Shepard watched for an hour or so. 
Una had intervals of brightness and perfect con¬ 
sciousness. In one of these, she tied up a bouquet 
of flowers with hands that almost shook the flowers 
to pieces with their trembling, to send them to a 
friend who was ill. She raised herself upon her 
elbow, and wrote with a pencil a graceful note, 
quoting her father’s ‘ Wonder-Book ' in reference 
to the bouquet.” 

I went with my father and mother to several 
painters’ and sculptors’ studios (besides innumer¬ 
able visits to churches and galleries), all filling my 
mind with unfailing riches of memory. I hope I 
shall be pardoned for giving the general effect of 
this companionship and sight-seeing upon many 
years of reflection in a strain that is autobiograph¬ 
ical. The studio which I best remember was Mr. 
Thompson’s, he who had painted the portrait of 
my father used in the editions of “Twice-Told 
37i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Tales.” The room was very large, but not very 
high, and it had a great deal of shadow in it. I 
did not think he painted as well as Raphael; but 
I delighted in the smell of his pigments, which 
were intensely fragrant. I thought his still moist 
canvas upon the easel, of a little Peter and a 
well-groomed angel, infinitely amusing. It was 
history scrubbed, and rather reduced in size. I 
was half appalled, half fascinated, by my temerity 
in having such frivolous private opinions of a pic¬ 
ture that my mother and father felt the excellence 
of with reverence and praise. A minute portrait 
of me was painted by Mr. Thompson ; one for 
which I did not find it at all amusing to sit, as I 
had to occupy a stiff chair (I think it was even a 
high stool) without any of the family to keep me 
in heart, although I had almost never been left 
with friends in that way, and although I was by 
that time a perfect recluse in disposition. So I 
was under the impression that I was being pun¬ 
ished by the invisible powers, which I was con¬ 
scious of eminently deserving. The small painting 
shows this idea of Purgatorial arrest by a clever 
touch here and there, without depicting a frown 
or positive gloom. The patronizing demeanor of 
an artist at work upon a portrait, which we all 
know so well, — the inevitable effect of his faith 
in himself, the very breath of artistic endeavor, 
without which he would lounge through life ask¬ 
ing, “ Of what use is it to attempt ? ” — made me 
furious, in my naughty, secret mind. I was not 
accustomed to being patronized ; my mother her- 
372 


ITALIAN DAYS 


self had never given me a command. Besides, I 
was out of temper to think that my quietly obser¬ 
vant father had stood in admiration before that 
picture of the liberating of St. Peter, of which I 
wearied, liking it so cordially that he had uttered 
his conclusive, deeply sympathetic “Yes,” when 
my mother gave voice to her praise; whereas I 
had not had the grace to glow, but voted all the 
pictures bores in a lump. Mr. Thompson, below 
the average size, and harmlessly handsome, always 
wore the prevailing gleam of a smile that showed 
chiefly at the eyes, offset by a nimbus of gray and 
black hair. 

I wondered, even at seven years of age, how 
sculptors in the flesh could come and carve origi¬ 
nal conceptions among the unspeakably successful 
attempts of those who were already thinnest dust, 
yet whose names have so much personality in 
them that a sovereign presence fills the place 
where they are spoken, — sculptors whose statues 
step as it were unexpectedly (themselves sur¬ 
prised) into sight, with none of the avoirdupois of 
later stone-work ; that heaviness which, in some 
of the finest of these modern figures, causes them 
to pause involuntarily, as if snowed upon. The 
high degree of smoothness of the old statues, as 
well as their mellowed whiteness, may give life; 
added to that wonderful deep cutting in all crevices 
and detail of nature, such as gives, in literature, 
the life to Balzac’s endlessly studied facts of situa¬ 
tion. The sugary porousness of much of the infe¬ 
rior marble of to-day arrests the eye, and troubles 
373 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

it. Story’s Cleopatra is smooth, close-fibred as 
glass, and the snowstorm has not been allowed to 
drift upon the folds of her robe, the interstices 
of her modeling. She, with a few others of still 
later date, comes near to the old art, which has 
as much possibility for our imaginative survey as 
the plot of “The Marble Faun,” so marvelously, 
so intricately, so unslavishly finished. In looking 
at the Dying Gladiator, we wonder whether he 
has already passed on from mastering the thought 
of his approaching death to the remembrance of 
his wife and children; or whether upon the agony 
of the physical pang and the insult to courage, 
which his wound has brought him to endure, is 
yet to break the pathos of a hero’s regret for the 
relinquished sweetness of love and home. 

The Marble Faun suggests the problem as to 
whether he has for an instant stopped laughing, 
or will not immediately laugh ; and what has a 
little while ago, or will suddenly cause, the animal 
fury of gladness to turn this jocund athlete into a 
dancing, bewilderingly enticing companion, chim¬ 
ing with guffaws and songs. Cleopatra’s watchful 
melancholy partook also of classic momentariness, 
and I hoped she would spring to her feet. I 
liked very much to go to Mr. Story’s studio, and 
I thought that for so slight a figure he was re¬ 
markably fearless. 

The arches of triumph, which my mother stud¬ 
ied reverently, seemed to me too premeditated 
and unnecessary; although an architect could no 
doubt have explained why, even to the present 
374 


ITALIAN DAYS 


day, the little door for the little cat should supple¬ 
ment the big door of all space, which one would 
at first take to be a hero’s best environment. Not 
thus unnecessary appeared the Coliseum ; haunted 
by wild beasts, especially lions, leaping (I ima¬ 
gined) in hobgoblin array from the cavernous 
entrances which were pointed out to me as con¬ 
nected in the days of triumphant tyranny with 
their donjons. Many tender thoughts filled my 
reflections as I saw pilgrims visiting, and kneel¬ 
ing before, the black cross in the centre, and the 
altars around the walls. I delighted to muse 
within the circular ruin, upon whose upper rim, 
jagged but sunlit, delicate vegetation found a re¬ 
pentant welcome. The circular form of the ruin 
is full of eloquence, as one approaches from the 
Forum. What would be grace in a smaller struc¬ 
ture is tragedy in so immense a sweep, which 
melts into vagueness, or comes mountainously 
upon you, or swirls before you in a retreating 
curve that figures the never-changing change of 
eternity. 

The tomb of Cecilia Metella, and other succes¬ 
sive tombs of the Appian Way beyond the walls, 
gave me my first impression of death that really 
was death. There could be, I reflected, look¬ 
ing at the sepulchres of these old Romans, no 
pretty story about the poor folk having gone to 
heaven comfortably from their apparent bodies. 
Here were the ashes of them, after a thousand 
years, in contemptible little urns ; and they were 
expected to enjoy, in that much impaired state, 
375 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

sundry rusty bric-a-brac, dolls, and tear-vials of 
spookish iridescence, until, in the vast lapse of 
time, even a ghost must have got tired. Unaided 
by the right comment, I was dragged down con¬ 
siderably by those pagan tombs ; and as an anti¬ 
dote, the unexplained catacombs were not suffi¬ 
ciently elevating. I did not read the signs of the 
subterranean churches aright, any more than the 
uncultivated Yankee reads aright an Egyptian 
portraiture. Monkish skulls and other unburied 
bones, seen by the light of moccoletti> were to me 
nothing but forms of folly. The abounding life 
of Catholicity was hardly understood by our party, 
which for some reason seemed inclined to impute 
the most death to the faith which has the most 
form. We did not gather how this abounding 
life can afford, though making more of our little 
fleshly sojourn than any other patron, to compare 
a skull with the life of the spirit, and relegate it 
to ornamentation and symbol. 

Through the streets of Rome trotted in brown 
garb and great unloveliness a frequent monk, 
brave and true ; and each of these, I was led by 
the feminine members of the family, to regard 
as a probable demon, eager for my intellectual 
blood. A fairer sight were the Penitents, in neat 
buff clothes of monastic outline, their faces cov¬ 
ered with their hoods, whose points rose overhead 
like church steeples, two holes permitting the eyes 
to peep with beetle glistenings upon you. They 
went hurryingly along, called from their worldly 
affairs; and my mother imparted to me her belief 
376 


ITALIAN DAYS 


that they were somewhat free of superstition be¬ 
cause undoubtedly clean. Sometimes processions 
of them, chanting, came slowly through the city, 
bearing the dead to burial. I did not know, then, 
that the chanting was the voicing of good, honest, 
Bible-derived prayers ; I thought it was child’s 
play, useless and fascinating. In the churches 
the chanting monks and boys impressed me dif¬ 
ferently. Who does not feel, without a word to 
reveal the fact, the wondrous virtue of Catholic 
religious observance in the churches ? The ho¬ 
liness of these regions sent through me waves 
of peace. I stepped softly past the old men and 
women who knelt upon the pavements, and gazed 
longingly upon their simpler spiritual plane ; I 
drew back reluctantly from the only garden where 
the Cross is planted in visible, reverential sub¬ 
stance. For the year ensuing this life in Rome, 
I entertained the family with dramatic imitations 
of religious chants, grumbling out at sundown the 
low, ominous echoings of the priests, answered by 
the treble, rapid and trustful, of the little choris¬ 
ters, gladly picturing to myself as I did so the 
winding processions in St. Peter’s. 

In the square beneath our windows, during 
Lent, booths were set, and countless flat pancake¬ 
looking pieces of dough were caught up by a white- 
capped and aproned cook, with a long-handled 
spoon, and fried in olive oil placed in a caldron 
at the booth’s door, to be served to passers in the 
twinkling of an eye. I watched this process until 
I grew to regard Lent as a tiresome custom. Hav- 
377 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

ing tested the cakes, I found them to be indis¬ 
tinct in taste, for all their pretty buff tint, and the 
dexterous twist of the cook’s wrist as he dumped 
them and picked them up. If they had been ap¬ 
petizing I should have been sharply interested in 
the idea of becoming a Catholic, but their entire 
absence of relish convinced me that the Italians 
lacked mental grasp and salvation at a single 
swoop : and this in spite of the fact that one of 
my mother’s most valued friends, Mrs. Ward, had 
lately joined the Church. It was her husband 
who said of her, “ Whatever church has Anna, has 
St. Anna ! ” Perhaps the most exquisite speech 
ever uttered by a husband. 

Before this serious season of pancakes, which 
was all Lent was to me at the time of which I 
speak, the Carnival had rushed upon my sight, 
carrying all our friends through its whirlpool. 
Every gay cloth, shawl, and mat that could be 
brought into service I had rejoiced to see displayed 
upon the balconies. A narrow, winding street the 
Corso seemed, being so full, and the houses so 
high; and a merry blue strip of heaven far away 
overhead, glancing along the housetops, assured 
us space still existed. Sudden descents of flowers 
upon one’s shoulders and lap in the carriage, from 
a window or a passer, or a kindly feeling stranger 
in another carriage, made one start in mirthful 
response. Sudden meetings with dear friends, or 
friends who seemed almost dear in the cheerful 
hurly-burly, became part of the funny scrimmage. 
At each side-street sat on a stony standing horse 
378 


ITALIAN DAYS 


a beautifully proportioned and equipped guard, in 
gleaming helmet and calm demeanor. 

To stand or sit at the windows beside the show 
was an experience full of pleasure; and if the win¬ 
dow was on a level with the heads of the huddling 
passers, one could be in all the merriment yet not 
jostled ; one could easily pick out a pretty woman 
or a handsome man to whom to throw a bouquet; 
and one could see energetic revelers, already 
well supplied with flowers, reaching high windows 
with bouquets by means of those wooden contri¬ 
vances which can be extended or contracted at 
will, and look like impracticable ladders. The fair 
recipient at the lattice never failed to respond with 
an ecstatic smile if this Jacob’s ladder had been 
sufficiently long to reach her welcoming hand. 
Meantime, many bunches of flowers, some large 
and elegant, some small and merely gay of color, 
were being thrown aloft or flung downward, mak¬ 
ing fountains and cataracts of flowers. Some¬ 
times these bouquets fell into the street deject¬ 
edly, upon whose pavement little ragamuffins were 
always ready to pounce for them, and sell them 
again as fast as possible to passers who had ex¬ 
hausted their supply, had become mad with the 
Carnival, and caught sight, in that very moment, 
of some cherished comrade to whom they wished 
to throw a greeting. There was an intoxicating 
enjoyment in being singled out as the recipient of 
fragrant flowers, sent with a laugh of the eyes; 
or of a handful of sugared almonds, tossed with 
a gay shout of compliment. If the passer who 
379 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

thus honored us was a complete stranger, meet¬ 
ing us for this one moment in racial kindness, 
we felt the untrammeled bonhomie which, God 
knows, we were expected to feel as a matter of 
course not for a moment only, but for life. 

Upon all these things I delighted to think and 
afterwards to ponder, because I realized that they 
were of vital interest to the intelligence which was 
to me greatest and dearest. 

380 


CHAPTER XIII 


ITALIAN DAYS : II 

Between our two winters in Rome we spent 
the summer in Florence, to which we journeyed 
by carriage over a road that was hung like a rare 
gallery with landscapes of the most picturesque 
description, and bordered close at hand by many 
a blue or crimson or yellow Italian anemone with 
its black centre. This experience was all sun¬ 
shine, all pastime. On the way, stopping at Lake 
Thrasymene, my mother wrote : — 


May 29, 1858. 

My dear Elizabeth, — I have just been 
watching the moon rise over the lake, exactly op¬ 
posite the window of our parlor. We thought to 
go out and see the moonlight this evening, when 
I saw on the horizon what seemed a mighty con¬ 
flagration, which I immediately supposed must be 
the moon, though I had never seen it look so red. 
The clouds were of a fiery splendor, and then 
the flaming rim of the moon appeared above the 
mountains, like the shield of some warrior of the 
great battle between Flaminius and Hannibal on 
this spot, rising with its ghostly invisible hero to 
see how it was now on the former field of blood. 
The “peace supreme” that reigns here this even* 
381 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

ing distances all thought of war and terror. We 
left Perugia this afternoon at three o’clock, with 
the finest weather. Our drive was enchanting all 
the way, along rich valleys and up mountains. And 
when climbing mountains we have two milk-white 
steers which majestically draw us along. Their 
eyes are deep wells of dark, peaceful light, that 
seem to express broad levels of rich waving grain, 
pure lapsing streams, olives and vines, and every 
other sign of plenty and quiet husbandry, with no 
end of dawns, twilights, and cool thickets. The 
golden age of rural life slumbers in their great 
orbs. . Byron calls them “ the purest gods of gen¬ 
tle waters.” 

June 7. Here we are, then, in enchanting 
Florence ! I shall try to send you a journal by the 
Bryants, who are here now. The Brownings are 
close by, and we are going to see them soon. The 
language has yet to be made in which to describe 
beautiful, beautiful Florence, with its air of nectar 
and sherbet and soft odors, its palaces, Arno, 
and smooth streets, arched bridges, and all its 
other charms and splendors. . . . 

We were hot in the city of Florence. My only 
consolation was to eat unnumbered cherries and 
apricots, for I did not as yet like the figs. My 
brother and I sometimes had a lurid delight in 
cracking the cherry and apricot stones and de¬ 
vouring the bitter contents, with the dreadful 
expectation of soon dying from the effects. Al¬ 
together I considered our sojourn in the town 
382 


ITALIAN DAYS 


house, Casa del Bello, a morose experience; but 
it was, fortunately, short. My mother had a dif¬ 
ferent feeling: she wrote home to America, “ It 
is a delightful residence.” Without doubt it con¬ 
tained much engaging finery. Three parlors, 
giving upon a garden, were absorbed into the 
“ study ” for my father alone; and my mother 
was greatly pleased to find that fifteen easy-chairs 
were within reach of any whim for momentary 
rest between the campaigns of sight-seeing. To 
add to my own arbitrary shadow and regret of 
that time, the garden at the rear of the house 
was to me damp ; full of green things and grace¬ 
fully drooping trees, doubtless, but never embra¬ 
cing a ray of sunshine. Yet it was hot; all was 
relaxing; summer prevailed in one of its ill-hu¬ 
mored moods. To make matters worse, my bro¬ 
ther had caught in this Dantesque garden a brown 
bird, whether because sick or lame I know not. 
But an imprisoned bird it certainly was; and its 
prison consisted of a small, cell-like room, bare of 
anything but the heart-broken glances of its occu¬ 
pant. My father objected to the capture and 
caging of birds, and looked with cold disapproval 
upon the hospitable endeavor of my brother to 
lengthen the existence of a little creature that 
was really safer in the hands of Dame Nature. 
Presently the bird from the sad garden died, and 
then indeed Florence became intolerable to me! 
I wandered through the long, darkish hall that 
penetrated our edifice from front to back, and I 
sometimes emerged into the garden’s bosky sul- 

383 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

lenness in my unsmiling misery. Again my mo¬ 
ther’s testimony proves my mind to have been 
strangely influenced by what to her was “a gar¬ 
den full of roses, jessamine, orange and lemon 
trees, and a large willow-tree drooping over a 
fountain in its midst,” with a row of marble busts 
along a terrace : altogether a place that should 
have filled me with kittenish glee. The “ Note- 
Books,” to be sure, suggest that it harbored mala¬ 
ria. I looked with painful disappointment upon 
the unceasing dishes of fresh purple figs, which 
.everybody else seemed to enjoy. I saw pale 
golden wine poured from poetic bottles braided 
with strands of straw, like pretty girls’ heads of 
ilaxen hair; and I was surprised that my father 
had the joyousness to smile, though sipping what 
he was later to call “ Monte Beni Sunshine.” 

That nothing of misery might be excluded from 
any dismal round of woe, the only people whom I 
could go to see were the Powers family, living 
opposite to us. Mr. Powers petrified me by the 
sang-froid with which he turned out, and pointed 
out, his statues. Great artists are apt to be like 
reflections from a greater light, —they know more 
about that light than about themselves; but Mr. 
Powers seemed to me to defy art to lord it over 
shis splendid mechanical genius, the self he man¬ 
aged so well. To prove beyond a doubt that ma¬ 
terial could not resist him, he would step from 
the studio into an adjoining apartment, and strike 
off button-like bits of metal from an iron appa¬ 
ratus which he had invented. It was either but- 

384 


ITALIAN DAYS 


tons or Venuses with him, indifferently, as I sup¬ 
posed. 

Gray to me, though “ bright ” to my mother, 
were the galleries and narrow halls of marble 
busts, where started back into this life old Medi- 
cean barbarians, of imperial power and worm¬ 
like ugliness; presided over, as I looked upon 
them in memory during my girlhood, by that 
knightly form of Michel Angelo’s seated Lo¬ 
renzo de’ Medici, whose attitude and shadowed 
eyes seem to express a lofty disapproval of such 
a world. 

A morning dawned when the interest in living 
again became vigorous. A delicate-looking, es¬ 
sentially dignified young gentleman, the Count da 
Montaiito, seeming considerably starved, but fas¬ 
cinatingly blue-blooded, appeared in our tiresome 
house. I heard that we were to remove to a villa 
at Bellosguardo, a hill distant fifteen minutes’ 
drive from the city, where the summer was rea¬ 
sonable ; and as the count owned this haunt of 
refreshment, I became enthusiastically tender in 
my respect for him. For years afterwards my 
sensibilities were exercised over the question as 
to where the count was put while we enjoyed the 
space and loveliness of Montaiito ; I did not know 
that he had a palace in town. His sad, sweetly 
resentful glance had conveyed to me the idea, 
“ Must I still live, if I live beneath my rank, and 
as a leaser of villas ? ” 

One day, happy day, we toiled by carriage, be¬ 
tween light-colored walls, sometimes too high for 
385 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

any view, — that once caused my mother a three 
hours’ walk, because of a misturn, — over little 
hot, dusty roads, out and up to the villa. My father 
and brother had already walked thither; and my 
brother’s spirits, as he stood beside the high iron 
gateway, in front of the gray tower which was the 
theme, or chief outline, of the old country-seat, 
were pleasant to witness, and illustrated my own 
pent-up feelings. He shouted and danced before 
the iron bars of the gate like a humanized note of 
music, uncertain where it belonged, and glad of it. 

Our very first knowledge of Montaiito was rich 
and varied, with the relief from pretentiousness 
which all ancient things enjoy, and with the ap¬ 
pealing sweetness of time-worn shabbiness. The 
walls of the hall and staircase were of gray stone, 
as were the steps which led echoingly up to the 
second story of the house. My sister exclaims in 
delight concerning the whole scene : “ This villa, 
— you have no idea how delightful it is ! I think 
there must be pretty nearly a hundred rooms in 
it, of all shapes, sizes, and heights. The walls are 
never less than five feet thick, and sometimes 
more, so that it is perfectly cool. I should feel 
very happy to live here always. I am sitting in 
the loggia, which is delightful in the morning 
freshness. Oh, how I love every inch of that 
beautiful landscape ! ” The tower and the adjacent 
loggia were the features that preeminently sated 
our thirst for suggestive charm, and they became 
our proud boast and the chief precincts of our 
daily life and social intercourse. The ragged gray 
386 


ITALIAN DAYS 


giant looked over the road-walls at its foot, and 
beyond and below them over the Arno valley, 
rimmed atop with azure distance, and touched 
with the delicate dark of trees. Internally, the 
tower (crowned, like a rough old king of the days 
of the Round Table, with a machicolated summit) 
was dusty, broken, and somewhat dangerous of 
ascent. Owls that knew every wrinkle of despair 
and hoot-toot of pessimism clung to narrow cre¬ 
vices in the deserted rooms, where the skeleton¬ 
like prison frameworks at the unglazed windows 
were in keeping with the dreadful spirits of these 
unregenerate anchorites. The forlorn apartments 
were piled one above the other until the historic 
cylinder of stone opened to the sky. In contrast 
to the barrenness of the gray inclosures, through 
the squares of the windows throbbed the blue and 
gold, green and lilac, of Italian heavens and coun¬ 
tryside. 

At the dangers of the stairway my father 
laughed, with flashing glances. He always laughed 
(it was a sound peculiarly passionate and low, full, 
yet unobtrusive) at dangers in which he could 
share himself, although so grave when, in the 
moral turmoil, he was obliged to stand and watch 
uneven battle; not the less sorry for human na¬ 
ture because weakness comes from our ignoring 
the weapons we might have used. But on those 
trembling stairs he approved of the risk we ran, 
while cautioning me not to drop through one of 
the holes, and then stumbled within an inch of 
breaking his own neck, and laughed again. 

387 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

“ While gropingly descending these crazy steps 
one dusky evening, I gratified Julian exceedingly 
by hitting my nose against the wall/’ he admits 
in the “Note-Books.” Who would not enjoy see¬ 
ing a monarch come to so humble a contact with 
the bulwarks of his tower ? Especially if he were 
royal enough not to take offense at one’s mirth, 
as this one never did. Reaching the topmost 
heights of the stone pile, shaggy with yellow moss, 
we eagerly pressed to the battlements and drank 
in the view, finding all Florence spread out before 
us, far down from the breeze and light and pros¬ 
pect of our perch,—understanding the joy of 
falcons that are long hooded, and then finally 
look. 

On one side of the tower was the lawn, hemmed 
round by a somewhat high semicircular stone 
wall. In front of it was Florence, pinnacled and 
roof-crowded, across the gentle valley. Not far 
away rose Galileo’s rival tower, and the habita¬ 
tions of one or two friends. On another side of 
the keep the valley dipped more decidedly; and 
in the foreground clustered a collection of trees 
upon a grassy slope, divided from the villa lawn 
by a low wall, over which my father and mother 
sometimes bought grapes, figs, pomegranates, and 
peaches grown upon the place, which were smil¬ 
ingly offered by the count’s contadmi. These 
from their numbers were unrecognizable, while 
their prices for the exquisite fruit were so small 
that it was a pleasure to be cheated. Behind the 
tower stretched lengthily the house, its large 
388 


ITALIAN DAYS 


arched doorway looking upon all comers with a 
frown of shadow. Still further behind basked a 
bevy of fruit gardens and olive-tree dotted hill¬ 
sides with their vines of the grape. We used to 
sit on the lawn in the evenings, and sometimes 
received guests there ; looking at the sky, moon, 
comet, and stars (“ flowers of light,” my mother 
called them) as if they were new. Any mortal 
might have been forgiven for so regarding them, 
in the sapphire glory of an Italian night. My 
mother’s untiring voice of melodious enthusi¬ 
asm echoed about the group in ejaculations of 
praise. 

In connection with the comet my elders spoke 
of war and misery, of which it was accused of being 
the messenger. My child’s heart already knew 
the iron truth, and was not astonished at the in¬ 
trusion of such a thought, that beauty and peace 
must always entertain the herald of the other coun¬ 
try — the dark one. There was a sadness about 
Italy, although it lay under “the smile of God,” 
as my father calls its sunshine. He and my mother 
often mention this shadow, as before remarked, in 
their records. At times the cause seems to them 
to come from the “incubus” of the Catholic reli¬ 
gion, although they both believed it capable of being 
wholly perfect. Glorious scenes were constantly 
soothing this sense of human sorrow, scenes such 
as cannot be found in regions outside the Church. 
In the Basilica of San Spirito my mother came 
upon several visible lovelinesses of elaborate devo¬ 
tion, which with her limpid purity of justice she 

389 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

enthusiastically notes down. She entered the 
church one day for coolness and rest, and, recog¬ 
nizing its “ noble ” beauties, she described, in her 
journal already printed, “a function going on be¬ 
fore one of the side-chapels — the burial service 
of a child. The coffin was covered with a white 
satin pall, embroidered with purple and gold. The 
officiating priests were in robes of white satin and 
gold, and the altar was alight with candles, besides 
those borne by young boys in white tunics. This 
scene in the aisle was a splendid picture in the soft 
gloom of the church ; and when the organ burst 
forth in a kind of tender rapture, rolling pearly 
waves of harmony along the large spaces, and fill¬ 
ing the dome with the foam and spray of interla¬ 
cing measures, it seemed as if angels were welcom¬ 
ing the young child to heaven.” The pettiness 
of a brief burial service in a private parlor or in 
a meagre meeting-house would not have touched 
her heart so profoundly, because it would not have 
recalled heaven so impressively in all its grandeur 
and tenderness. She evidently perceived here the 
sweet and even cheering veracity of a devotion 
that is glad to remember all the possibilities of re¬ 
verent observance, each motion and aspect of which 
have a reference to God and to religious history. 
Again San Spirito gave her an insight into the 
dignity of painstaking worship. “ While we were 
walking about, the priests and monks of the Order 
of St. Augustine, who have a convent attached, 
came in a procession from the sacristy, and knelt 
down in their sweeping black robes upon the mar- 
390 


ITALIAN DAYS 


ble pavement, in two lines, one behind the other, 
and chanted aloud their Ave Maria. It was a won¬ 
derful picture.” She still clung to the Puritanical 
idea that in religion itself, “ What looks so won¬ 
drous, wondrous fair, His providence has taught 
us to fear. . . . Angels only are fit to live as monks 
pretend to live.” But she contradicts this theory. 
No one was more adapted than she to perceive the 
godliness of the monastic sacrifice, when she real¬ 
ized the object of it. Among her dearest friends 
and verified ideals were Mr. George Bradford, who 
always reminded me of a priest of the true type; 
and Miss Hoar, whose vestal soul, celebrating con¬ 
stant rites over the memory of her dead betrothed, 
made her the image of a nun. This welcome deli¬ 
cacy and loftiness of self-consecration my mother 
also observed in the ranks of the sometimes harshly 
criticised friars. At Fiesole, “ A young monk 
unveiled the picture for us. He was very courte¬ 
ous, and had an air of unusual goodness and sin¬ 
cerity. He is one of those who ‘bear witness.’ 
As a matter of course I offered him a fee for his 
trouble, but he made a sad and decided gesture of 
refusal, that was very surprising and remarkable; 
for it was impossible to gainsay him, and I felt 
embarrassed that I had thought of the gold that 
perishes in the presence of the heavenly picture 
and the holy youth. I wish I knew his history.” 
I also wish she had known it, for it would have 
unveiled for her the most beautiful facts about 
other holy youths of our own day, as well as simi¬ 
lar facts of earlier days, — truths whose purity 
39i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

would have rapt her thought even more deeply 
than Fra Angelico’s purity in art, uncurtained by 
brave and humble hands for her sight. It is to 
be observed that her views and tacit beliefs and 
my father’s are identical. They did not really be¬ 
lieve that Italy was under an “ incubus ; ” they felt 
the physical weight of Catholicity, or the Cross, 
and half guessed its spiritual spring. 

Some of the rooms at Montaiito I studiously 
avoided. The forlorn cavern of a parlor, or ball¬ 
room, I remember to have seen only once. There 
was a painful vacuum where good spirits ought to 
have been. Along the walls were fixed seats, like 
those in the apse of some morally fallen cathedral, 
and they were covered with blue threadbare mag¬ 
nificence that told the secrets of vanity. Heavy 
tables crowded down the centre of the room. I 
came, saw, and fled. The oratory was the most 
thrilling place of all. It opened out of my sister’s 
room, which was a large, sombre apartment. It 
was said to attract a frequently seen ghost by the 
force of its profound twilight and historic sorrows ; 
and my sister, who was courageous enough to 
startle a ghost, highly approved of this corner of 
her domain. But she suddenly lost her buoyant 
taste for disembodied spirits, and a rumor floated 
mistily about that Una had seen the wretched 
woman who could not forget her woes in death. 
In “ Monte Beni ” this oratory is minutely pictured, 
where “beneath the crucifix ... lay a human 
skull . . . carved in gray alabaster, most skillfully 
done . . . with accurate imitation of the teeth, the 
39 2 


ITALIAN DAYS 


sutures, the empty eye-caverns.” Everywhere the 
intense picturesqueness gave material, at Mon- 
taiit o, for my father’s romance. Stella, whom he 
invited into the story without changing her name, 
was a sympathetic object in my now somewhat 
alarmed and lonely days. I call her an “object,” 
because I could not understand a word she said, 
and she soon gave up opening her lips when we 
were together. She looked kind, in spite of her 
rocky hardness of Italian feature, and she fed me 
on dried melon-seeds when I was at the lowest 
tide of depression. Sometimes she was to be found 
at the well, close to the entrance-arch. There the 
faithful servant let down a bucket by its heavy 
chain with a doomsday clank. The sunlight re¬ 
vealed the smallness and brilliancy and number of 
her black braids and the infinite multitude of her 
wrinkles, as well as the yellowness of her dangling 
gold earrings and the texture of her parchment-like 
arms, which were the color of glossy brown leaves. 
Sometimes she would awaken me from soporific 
melancholy by allowing herself to be found upon 
her knees in her bedroom, a bare and colorless 
abode, her great black crucifix hanging in majes¬ 
tic solitude upon the wall above her handsome old? 
head. I thought her temporarily insane to pray/ 
so much, and at all to an audience ; but I recog¬ 
nized the gentleness of the attacks, and I somehow^ 
loved her for them. Even to the ignorance of 
error truth can be beautiful. An extremely at¬ 
tractive little Italian maid, of sixteen or less, used 
also to be found on her knees before the crucifix. 

393 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Stella was obliged to drive this dark-eyed butter¬ 
fly to her devotions. If I discovered her, I had 
no reverence, and tried unmercifully to interrupt 
her soft whispers. Stella’s loving revenge for my 
wickedness was to give me a tiny wax sleeping 
Bambino , surrounded by flowers under a convex 
.glass, whose minute face had a heaven of smiling 
forgiveness in it. Often I surreptitiously studied 
"the smile on the sleeping face. I felt that He 
loved us even during His sleep ; and I cherished 
the gaze of shining gladness with which Stella 
>herself had placed this treasure in my hand, which 
could so simply quicken sluggish thought. 

To give a clearer glimpse of the villa, which 
with our life there became one of the most pre¬ 
cious of our memories, and a glimpse also of one 
-or two people and events, I will insert this letter 
from my mother : — 

August 14,1858. 

My dear Elizabeth, — Una and Rose were 
'getting pale for the first time in their lives, and 
Mr. Hawthorne was languid and weary of the 
city life, and an English lady, a friend of the 
Brownings, told us of this villa, which the Count 
da Montaiito wished to let this summer, though 
never before, and so we tried for it and got it. It 
is a most enchanting situation, and the villa is 
^immensely large and very nice. We have an old 
mediaeval tower at the oldest end, in which Savo¬ 
narola was confined, and from its summit we have 
a view which one might dream of, but seldom see. 
We are so high, however, that from the first floor 
394 


ITALIAN DAYS 


we have a sweeping view, and look down on the 
most sumptuous valley of the Arno from our 
western windows, — a level plain, cultivated every 
inch with grapes and olives and other fruits; and 
all round rise up soft hills, and the Apennines 
afar off where the sun sets. We see the noble 
white steers slowly moving in the valley, among 
the trees, ploughing as in the days of Cincinnatus. 
An infinite peace and quiet reign. We hear 
birds, and in the evening the cue owl utters his 
melodious, melancholy one note. The world does 
not disturb us. The air is as pure and fresh as 
air can possibly be, blowing from the sweet, care¬ 
fully tended plain, and sweeping down from the 
mountains. Near us is the villa and tower of 
Aurora Leigh, just at the end of our estate, and 
farther off is Galileo’s tower, where he studied 
the heavens. Northeast from us lies the beauti¬ 
ful Florence, burning in the bottom of the cup of 
hills, with all its domes and campaniles, palaces 
and churches. Fiesole, the cradle of Florence, 
is visible among the heights at the east, and San 
Miniato, with its grove of cypresses, is farther 
off to the south. There is no end of beauty and 
interest, and the view becomes ideal and poetic 
the moment the sun begins its decline; for 
then the rose and purple mists drape the hills, 
and mountains — the common earth — turn to 
amethysts, topazes, and sapphires, and words can 
never convey an idea of the opaline heavens, 
which seem to have illimitable abysses of a pene¬ 
trable substance, made up of the light of pearls. 

395 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


Literally and carefully I speak of the light of 
pearls, with the opaline changes. I am quite 
happy that I have seized the image. The effect 
is of a roundness with the confused yet clear out¬ 
line of a pearl, an outline which also is not one, 
and the light looks living and absorbing. One 
evening, after the sun went down, rays of blue 
and rose came from it in a half-wheel shape, so 
ineffably delicate that if we looked too pryingly 
they were not there, but if we glanced unawares 
there they were. It was more like the thought 
of them than the realities. This summer we 
have our first sight of Italian sunsets, for we were 
assured we should have fever if we were out at 
the hour in Rome. We began by watching them 
from the bridges over the Arno, which are per¬ 
haps the finest points of view, because the river 
is added. It flows east and west, and so we have 
all the glory by standing on either of the bridges. 
The arches, the reflections in the waters, the 
city’s palaces and churches, the distant hills, all 
come in for a part of the pomp and splendor, — 
all that man can do, all that God has done, for 
this lovely land. 

Una’s chamber is in the tower [but approached 
from the house], a large, lofty, vaulted chamber, 
with an oratory attached, full of Madonnas, 
pyxes, “and all sorts,” as Mr. Browning says. 
There is a regular chapel besides. Mr. Haw¬ 
thorne has a delightful suite of study, saloon, 
dressing-room, and chamber, away from all the 
rest of the family. 

396 


ITALIAN DAYS 


August 25. Last evening Miss Ada Shepard 
and I went to a neighboring villa to see some 
table-turning, which I have never see-n, nor any¬ 
thing appertaining to spirits. Mr. Frank Boott 
was there and a Fleming, Una’s drawing-master. 
We tried patiently for two hours with the table, 
but though it trembled and wavered, nothing 
came of it; so Miss Shepard then took a pencil 
and paper for the spirits to write, if they would. 
[The attempt on Miss Shepard’s part was now, 
and always afterwards, successful. My mother 
speaks of several somewhat vulgar spirits who 
caused great merriment.] Then Ada felt quite 
a different and new power seize her hand, rapidly 
writing : “ Who ? ” “ Mother.” “ Whose mo¬ 
ther ? ” “ Mrs. Hawthorne’s. My dear child, I 

am with you. I wish to speak to you. My dear¬ 
est child, I am near you. I am oftener with you 
than with any one.” Ada’s hand was carried 
forcibly back to make a strong underline beneath 
“ near,” and it was all written with the most eager 
haste, so that it agitated the medium very much, 
and me too ; for I had kept aloof in mind, because 
Mr. Hawthorne has such a repugnance to the 
whole thing. Mrs. Browning is a spiritualist. 
Mr. Browning opposes and protests with all his 
might, but he says he is ready to be convinced. 
Mrs. Browning is wonderfully interesting. She 
is the most delicate sheath for a soul I ever saw. 
One evening at Casa Guidi there was a conversa¬ 
tion about spirits, and a marvelous story was told 
of two hands that crowned Mrs. Browning with a 
397 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

wreath through the mediumship of Mr. Hume. 
Mr. Browning declared that he believed the two 
hands were made by Mr. Hume and fastened to 
Mr. Hume’s toes, and that he made them move by 
moving his feet. Mrs. Browning kept trying to 
stem his flow of eager, funny talk with her slen¬ 
der voice, but, like an arrowy river, he rushed and 
foamed and leaped over her slight tones, and she 
could not succeed in explaining how she knew 
they were spirit hands. She will certainly be in 
Rome next winter, unless she goes to Egypt. 
You would be infinitely charmed with Mrs. Brown¬ 
ing, and with Mr. Browning as well. The latter 
is very mobile, and flings himself about just as 
he flings his thoughts on paper, and his wife is 
still and contemplative. Love, evidently, has 
saved her life. I think with you that “ ‘ Aurora 
Leigh ’ overflows with well-considered thought ; ” 
and I think all literature does not contain such a 
sweet baby, so dewy, so soft, so tender, so fresh. 
Mr. Hawthorne read me the book in Southport, 
but I have read it now again, sitting in our loggia, 
with Aurora’s tower full in view. . . . 

This loggia opened widely to the air on two 
sides, so that the opalescent views were framed 
in oblong borders of stone that rested our rejoi¬ 
cing eyes. Under the stone shade, in the centre 
of the Raphaelesque distances, many mornings 
were passed ideally. Visitors often joined us here. 
Among them was Miss Elizabeth Boott, after¬ 
wards Mrs. Duveneck, who came with her little 
398 


ITALIAN DAYS 


sketch-book. She made a water-color portrait of 
my father, which, as the young artist was then 
but a girl, looked like a cherub of pug-nosed, pink 
good nature, with its head loose. I can see that 
little sketch now, and I feel still a wave of the 
dizziness of my indignation at its strange depic¬ 
tion of a strong man reduced to dollhood. Miss 
Boott being a true artist in the bud, there was, of 
course, the eerie likeness of some unlike portraits. 
It became famous with us all as the most star¬ 
tling semblance we had ever witnessed. I sin¬ 
cerely wish that the ardor with which the young 
girl made her sketch could have been used later 
on a portrait, which certainly would have been 
superbly honest and vigorous, like all the work 
that has come from her wonderfully noble nature 
and her skillful perception. Another young lady 
appeared against the Raphaelesque landscape. 
She was very pretty in every way, and my mother 
was delighted to have her present, and showered 
endearing epithets upon her. Her large brown 
eyes were alluring beyond words, and her features 
pathetically piquant and expressive. Her face 
was rather round, pale, and emphatically saddened 
by the great sculptor Regret. She sat in pictur¬ 
esque attitudes, her cheek leaning against her 
hand, and her elbow somewhere on the back or 
arm of her chair; yet her positions were never 
excessive, but eminently gentle. She had been 
disappointed in love, and one was sure it was not 
in the love of the young man. She was too 
pretty to die, but she could look sad, and we all 
399 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

liked to have her with us, and preferred her charm¬ 
ing misery to any other mood. 

The roads going to and fro between the cream- 
colored stone walls of the surrounding country 
were unsparingly hot. I can feel now the flash 
of sunbeams that made me expect to curl up and 
die like a bit of vegetation in a flame. I tried to 
feel cooler when I saw the peasant women ap¬ 
proaching, bent under their loads of wheat or of 
brush. If they had no shading load, it made me 
gasp to observe that their Tuscan hats, as large as 
cart-wheels and ostensibly meant to shadow their 
faces, were either dangling in their hands or flap¬ 
ping backward uselessly. It seemed to be no end 
of a walk to Florence, and the drive thither was 
also detestable, — all from the heat and dust, and 
probably only at that time of year. The views 
of many-colored landscape, hazy with steaming 
fields, were lovely if you could once muster the 
energy to gaze across the high road-walls when 
the thoroughfare sank down a declivity. After a 
while there were cottages, outside of which an¬ 
cient crones sat knitting like the wind, or spinning 
as smoothly as machines, by the aid of a distaff. 
Little girls, who were full-fledged peasant women 
in everything but size, pecked away at their knit¬ 
ting of blue socks, proud of their lately won skill 
and patient of the undesired toil. They were 
so small and comely and conformable, and yet 
conveyed such an idea of volcanic force ready to 
rebel, that they entranced me. Further inside 
the heart of the city upstarted the intoxications 
400 


ITALIAN DAYS 


of sin and the terrible beggars with their maimed 
children. I never lost the impressions of human 
wrong there gathered into a telling argument. 
The crowded hurry and the dirty creatures that 
attend commercial greed and selfish enjoyment 
in cities everywhere weltered along the sidewalks 
and unhesitatingly plunged into the mud of the 
streets. It seemed to me even then that some¬ 
thing should be done for the children maimed by 
inhuman fathers, and for their weeping mothers 
too. My father did not forget in his art the note 
he found in beautiful Florence, though it was too 
sad to introduce by a definite exposition, and falls 
upon the ear, in “Monte Beni,” like a wordless 
minor chord. 

I sometimes went with my mother when she 
called at Casa Guidi, where the Brownings lived. 
I had a fixed idea that Galileo belonged to their 
family circle; and I had a vision of him in my 
mind which was quite as clear as Mrs. Browning 
ever was (although I sat upon her lap), represent¬ 
ing him as holding the sun captive in his back 
yard, while he blinked down upon it from a 
high prison of his own. The house, as I recall it, 
seemed to have a network of second-story piazzas, 
and the rooms were very much shadowed and 
delightfully cool. Mr. Browning was shining in 
the shadow, by the temperate brightness of mind 
alone, and ever talking merrily. Cultivated Eng¬ 
lish folk are endowed with sounding gayety of 
voice, but he surpassed them all, as the medley 
of his rushing thought and the glorious cheer of 
401 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

his perception would suggest. Mrs. Browning 
was there : so you knew by her heavy dark curls 
and white cheeks, but doubted, nevertheless, when 
you came to meet her great eyes, so dreamy 
that you wondered which was alive, you or she. 
Her hand, usually held up to her cheek, was ab¬ 
solutely ghostlike. Her form was so small, and 
deeply imbedded in a reclining - chair or couch- 
corner, that it amounted to nothing. The dead 
Galileo could not possibly have had a wiser or 
more doubtfully attested being as a neighbor. If 
the poor scientist had been there to assert that 
Mrs. Browning breathed, he would probably have 
been imprisoned forthwith by another incredulous 
generation. My mother speaks, on her second 
visit to Rome, of the refreshment of Mr. Brown¬ 
ing’s calls, and says that the sudden meetings 
with him gave her weary nerves rest during the 
strain of my sister’s illness. She could not have 
rejoiced in his spirited loveliness more than the 
little girl by her side, who sometimes languished 
for direct personal intercourse in all the panorama 
of pictures and statues, and friends absorbed in 
sight-seeing. I had learned to be grateful for art 
and ruins, if only they were superlative of their 
kind. I put away a store of such in my fancy. 
But Mr. Browning was a perfection which looked 
at me , and moved vigorously! For many years 
he associated himself in my mind with the blessed 
visions that had enriched my soul in Italy, and 
continued to give it sustenance in the loneliness 
of my days when we again threw ourselves upon 
402 


ITALIAN DAYS 


the inartistic mercies of a New England village. 
He grouped himself with a lovely Diana at the 
Vatican, with some of Raphael’s Madonnas and 
the statue of Perseus, with Beatrice Cenci and 
the wildflowers of our journeys by vettura , be¬ 
sides a few other faultless treasures deeply appre¬ 
ciated by me. We all noticed Mr. Browning’s 
capacity for springing through substances and 
covering space without the assistance of time. 

My mother says in her little diary of Rome, “ I 
met Mr. Browning; or rather, he rushed at me 
from a distance, and seemed to come through a 
carriage in his way.” It was as if he longed to 
teach people how to follow his thoughts in poetry, 
as they flash electrically from one spot to another, 
thinking nothing of leaping to a mountain-top 
from an inspection of “ callow nestlings,” or any 
other tender fact of smallest interest. Not one 
of all the cherubs of the great masters had a sun¬ 
nier face, more dancing curls, or a sweeter smile 
than he. The most present personality was his ; 
the most distant, even when near, was the person¬ 
ality he married. I have wondered whether the 
Faun would have sprung with such untainted 
jollity into the sorrows of to-day if Mr. Browning 
had not leaped so blithely before my father’s eyes. 
“ Browning’s nonsense,” he writes, “ is of a very 
genuine and excellent quality, the true babble 
and effervescence of a bright and powerful mind; 
and he lets it play among his friends with the 
faith and simplicity of a child.” 

I think I must be right in tracing one of the 

403 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


chief enchantments of the story of Dr. Grimshawe 
to these months upon the hill of Bellosguardo. 
For at Montaiito one of the terrors was the cohort 
of great spiders. There is no word in the diction¬ 
ary so large or so menacing as a large spider of 
the Dr. Grimshawe kind. Such appear, like excla¬ 
mations, all over the world. I saw one as huge 
and thrilling as these Italian monsters on the 
Larch Path at the Wayside, a few years later; 
but at Montaiito they really swaggered and re¬ 
mained. We perceive such things from a great 
distance, as all disaster may be perceived if we 
are not more usefully employed. A presentiment 
whispers, “ There he is! ” and looking unswerv¬ 
ingly in the right direction, there he is, to be 
sure. I could easily have written a poor story, 
though not a good novel, upon the effectiveness 
of these spiders, glaring in the chinks of bed-cur¬ 
tains, or moving like shadows upon the chamber 
wall or around the windows, and I can guess my 
father’s amusement over them. They were as 
large as plums, with numerous legs that spread 
and brought their personality out to the verge of 
impossibility. I suppose they stopped there, but 
I am not sure. No wonder the romancer humor¬ 
ously added a touch that made a spider of the 
doctor himself, with his vast web of pipe-smoke! 

The great romance of “Monte Beni” is thus 
referred to by Mr. Motley and his wife ; I give 
a few sentences written by the latter, a friend of 
many years’ standing, and I insert Mr. Motley’s 
letter entire: — 

404 


ITALIAN DAYS 


Walton-on-Thames, April 13, i860. 

Dearest Sophia, — My pen continues to be 
the same instrument of torture to me that you 
remember it always was in my youth, when I used 
to read your letters with such wonder and delight. 
This spell is still upon me, for I appreciate the 
magic of your mind now as much as I did then, 
and have treasured up every little bit of a note 
that you wrote me in Rome. I like your fresh 
feminine enthusiasm, and always feel better and 
happier under its influence. ... I am glad that 
you were so much pleased with Lothrop’s letter 
of praise and thanksgiving ; a poor return at best 
for the happiness we had derived from reading 
Mr. Hawthorne’s exquisite romance. ... I shall 
not now attempt to add any poor words of mine 
to his expressive ones, except to assure you of my 
deep sympathy for the infinite content and joy 
you must feel in this new expression of your hus¬ 
band’s genius. We were so much pleased to find 
that he was willing to come to us in London, 
which we hardly dared to hope for. ... At least 
I can promise to attend to him as little as possi¬ 
ble. ... We have taken for the season a small 
house in Hertford Street, 31, which belongs to 
Lady Byron, who has fitted it up for her grand¬ 
daughter, Lady Annabella King. . . . The eldest 
brother, Lord Ockham, is a mechanic, and is now 
working in a machine-shop in Blackwall Island, 
where he lives. This eccentric course is rather, 
I fear, the development of a propensity for low 
company and pursuits than from anything Peter 
405 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the Greatish there is about him. His father, who 
is the quintessence of aristocracy, has cast him 
off. . . . Lothrop was very much gratified by all 
the fine things you said about him, and so was I; 
for praise from you means something and is worth 
having, because it comes from the heart. There 
is another volume written, . . . but another must 
be written before either is published. 

Ever your affectionate M. E. M. 

The “letter of praise and thanksgiving” re¬ 
ferred to above is as follows : — 

Walton-on-Thames. 

My dear Hawthorne, — I can’t resist the 
impulse to write a line to you, in order to thank 
you for the exquisite pleasure I have derived from 
your new romance. Everything that you have 
ever written, I believe, I have read many times; 
and I am particularly vain of having admired 
“Lights from a Steeple,” when I first read it in 
the “Boston Token,” several hundred years ago, 
when we were both younger than we are now; 
and of having detected and cherished, at a later 
day, an “ Old Apple Dealer,” whom I believe 
that you have unhandsomely thrust out of your 
presence, now you are grown so great. But the 
romance of “ Monte Beni ” has the additional 
charm for me that it is the first book of yours 
that I have read since I had the privilege of 
making your personal acquaintance. My memory 
goes back at once to those (alas, not too frequent, 
406 


ITALIAN DAYS 


but that was never my fault) walks we used to 
take along the Tiber or in the Campagna, during 
that dark period when your Una was the cause 
of such anxiety to your household and to all your 
friends ; and it is delightful to get hold of the 
book now, and know that it is impossible for you 
any longer, after waving your wand, as you occa¬ 
sionally did then, indicating where the treasure 
was hidden, to sink it again beyond the plummet’s 
sound. I admire the book exceedingly. I don’t 
suppose that it is a matter of much consequence 
to you whether I do or not, but I feel as much 
disposition to say so as if it were quite an ori¬ 
ginal and peculiar idea of my own, and as if the 
whole world were not just now saying the same 
thing. I suppose that your ears are somewhat 
stunned with your praises, appearing as you do 
after so long an interval; but I hope that, amid 
the din, you will not disdain the whisper from 
such sincere admirers as I am myself, and my 
wife and daughter are. I don’t know which of 
the trio is the warmest one, and we have been 
fighting over the book, as it is one which, for the 
first reading at least, I did not like to hear aloud. 
I am only writing in a vague, maundering, uncrit¬ 
ical way, to express sincere sympathy and grati¬ 
tude, not to exhibit any dissenting powers, if I 
have any. If I were composing an article for a 
review, of course I should feel obliged to show 
cause for my admiration, but I am now only 
obeying an impulse. Permit me to say, however, 
that your style seems, if possible, more perfect 
407 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

than ever. Where, oh where is the godmother 
who gave you to talk pearls and diamonds ? How 
easy it seems till anybody else tries ! Believe me, 
I don’t say to you half what I say behind your 
back ; and I have said a dozen times that nobody 
can write English but you. With regard to the 
story, which has been slightly criticised, I can 
only say that to me it is quite satisfactory. I 
like those shadowy, weird, fantastic, Hawthorn- 
esque shapes flitting through the golden gloom 
which is the atmosphere of the book. I like the 
misty way in which the story is indicated rather 
than revealed. The outlines are quite definite 
enough, from the beginning to the end, to those 
who have imagination enough to follow you in 
your airy flights; and to those who complain, I 
suppose nothing less than an illustrated edition, 
with a large gallows on the last page, with Dona¬ 
tello in the most pensive of attitudes, his ears 
revealed at last through a white nightcap, would 
be satisfactory. 

I beg your pardon for such profanation, but it 
really moves my spleen that people should wish 
to bring down the volatile figures of your romance 
to the level of an every-day novel. It is exactly 
the romantic atmosphere of the book in which I 
revel. You who could cast a glamour over the 
black scenery and personalities of ancient and of 
modern Massachusetts could hardly fail to throw 
the tenderest and most magical hues over Italy, 
and you have done so. I don’t know that I am 
408 


ITALIAN DAYS 


especially in love with Miriam or Hilda, or that I 
care very much what is the fate of Donatello ; but 
what I do like is the air of unreality with which 
you have clothed familiar scenes without making 
them less familiar. The way in which the two 
victims dance through the Carnival on the last 
day is very striking. It is like a Greek tragedy 
in its effect, without being in the least Greek. 
As I said before, I can’t single out any special 
scene, description, or personage by which to 
justify or illustrate my feeling about the book. 
That I could do better after a second reading, 
when it would be easy to be coldly critical. I 
write now just after having swallowed the three 
volumes almost at a draught; and if my tone is 
one of undue exhilaration, I can only say it was 
you gave me the wine. It is the book — as a 
whole—that I admire, and I hope you will for¬ 
give my saying so in four pages instead of four 
words. 

Is there any chance of our seeing you this sum¬ 
mer ? We expect to be in London next month. 
It will be very shabby of you not to let us have a 
glimpse of you ; but I know you to be capable of 
any meanness in that line. At any rate, you can 
have little doubt how much pleasure it will give 
us. Pray don’t answer this if it is in the least a 
bore to you to do so. I know that you are get¬ 
ting notes of admiration by the bushel, and I have 
no right to expect to hear from you. At the 
same time it would be a great pleasure to me to 
409 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

hear from you, for old (alas, no, — new) acquaint¬ 
ance’ sake. 

I remain very sincerely yours, 

J. L. Motley. 

Of the discussions about “ Monte Beni ” I re¬ 
member hearing a good deal, as my mother 
laughingly rehearsed passages in letters and re¬ 
views which scolded about Hawthorne’s tantaliz¬ 
ing vagueness and conscienceless Catholicity. 
My parents tried to be lenient towards the pub¬ 
lic, whose excitement was so complimentary, if 
its usually heavy inability to analyze its best in¬ 
tellectual wine was fatiguing. My father never 
for a moment expected to be widely understood, 
although he no doubt hoped to be so in certain 
cases. He must have easily deduced something 
in the way of chances for appreciative analysis 
from prevalent literature. He struck me as a 
good deal like an innocent prisoner at the bar, and 
if I had not been a member of his family I might 
have been sorry for him. As it was, I felt con¬ 
vinced that he could afford to be silent, patient, 
indifferent, now that his work was perfected. My 
mother put into words all that was necessary of 
indignation at people’s desire for a romance or a 
“ penny dreadful ” that would have been temporary 
and ineffective. Meantime, such rewards as Mr. 
Motley offered weighed down the already laden 
scales on the side of artistic wealth. 

Perhaps it will not be impertinent for me to 
remark, in reference to this admirable and delight- 
410 


ITALIAN DAYS 


ful letter, that its writer here exemplifies the best 
feelings about Hawthorne’s art without quite 
knowing it. We see him bubbling glad ejacula¬ 
tions in the true style of an Omar Khayyam who 
has drained the magic cup handed to him. It is 
delicious to hear that he was not sure he cared 
about the personages of a story that had clutched 
his imagination and heart, until he reeled a little 
with responsive enchantment; though it is hard 
to say about what he cared if not about the ro¬ 
mancer’s powerful allies, who carried his meaning 
for him. Mr. Motley tries to attribute to the 
scenes he knew so well in reality, under their new 
guise of dreamy vividness, the spell which came, 
I believe, from the reality of moral grandeur, in 
both its sin and its holiness, but which we so en¬ 
tirely ignore every precious hour by sinking to 
the realities of bricks and common clay. Miriam 
and Donatello may seem at first glance like vi¬ 
sions ; but I have always been taught that their 
spell lay in our innate sense that they were our¬ 
selves, as we really are. The wine of great truth 
is at first the most heady of all, making its reve¬ 
lations shimmer. 

411 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE WAYSIDE 

In order to give an idea of how it happened 
that our family could return from Europe to Con¬ 
cord with a few great expectations, I will rehearse 
somewhat of the charm which had been found in 
the illustrious village when my father and mother 
first knew it. There a group of people conversed 
together who have left an echo that is still heard. 
There also is still heard “ the shot fired round the 
world,” which of course returned to Concord on 
completing its circuit. But even the endle.ss con¬ 
course of visitors, making the claims of any region 
wearisomely familiar, cannot diminish the simple 
solemnity of the town’s historical as well as liter¬ 
ary importance; and indeed it has so many med¬ 
als for various merit that it is no wonder its resi¬ 
dents have a way of speaking about it which some 
of us would call Bostonian. Emerson, Thoreau, 
Channing, and Alcott dispersed a fragrance that 
attracted at once, and all they said was resonant 
with charity and courage. 

The first flash of individuality from Emerson 
could hardly fail to suggest that he resembled the 
American eagle; and he presided over Concord 
in a way not unlike our glorious symbol, the 
Friend of Light. It must have been exhilarating 
412 


THE WAYSIDE 


to look forward to many years in Emerson’s 
hamlet. My earliest remembered glimpse of him 
was when he appeared — tall, side-slanting, peer¬ 
ing with almost undue questioning into my face, 
but with a smile so constant as to seem like an 
added feature, dressed in a solemn, slender, dark 
overcoat, and a dark, shadowing hat — upon the 
Concord highroad; the same yellow thorough¬ 
fare which reaches out to Lexington its papyrus- 
strip of history. At the onset of Emerson — 
for psychic men do attack one with their superi¬ 
ority — awe took possession of me; and, as we 
passed (a great force and a small girl) I won¬ 
dered if I should survive. I not only did so, but 
felt better than before. It then became one of 
my happiest experiences to pass Emerson upon 
the street. A distinct exaltation followed my 
glance into his splendid face. Yet I caviled at 
his self-consciousness, his perpetual smile. I 
complained that he ought to wait for something 
to smile at. I could not be sure that he was pri¬ 
vately enjoying some joke from Greek fun-mak¬ 
ers, remembered under a Concord elm. After a 
time, I realized that he always had something to 
smile for , if not to smile at; and that a cheerful 
countenance is heroic. By and by I learned 
that he always could find something to smile at, 
also; for he tells us, “The best of all jokes is 
the sympathetic contemplation of things by the 
understanding, from the philosopher’s point of 
view.” But, in my unenlightened state, when I 
saw him begin to answer some question, however 

413 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

trivial, with this smile, slowly, very slowly grow¬ 
ing, until it lit up his whole countenance with 
a refulgent beam before he answered (the whole 
performance dominated by a deliberation as great 
and brilliant as the dawn), I argued that this good 
cheer was out of proportion ; that Emerson should 
keep back a smile so striking and circumstantial 
for rare occasions, such as enormous surprise ; or, 
he should make it the precursor to a tremendous 
roar of laughter. I have yet to learn that any 
one heard him laugh aloud, —which pastime he 
has called, with certainly a familiar precision that 
indicates personal experience, a “ pleasant spasm/’ 
a “muscular irritation.” 

In maturer years I believed that his smile 
brought refreshment, encouragement, and waves 
of virtue to those who saw it. To be sure, it was 
a sort of questioning ; sometimes even quizzical; 
sometimes only a safeguard ; but it was eminently 
kind, and no one else could do it. His man¬ 
ner was patronizing, in spite of its suavity; but it 
grew finer every spring, until it had become as 
exquisitely courteous as Sir Philip Sidney’s must 
have been. The arch of his dark eyebrows some¬ 
times seemed almost angry, being quickly lifted, 
and then bent in a scowl of earnestness; but as 
age advanced this sternness of brow grew to 
be, unchangeably, a calm sweep of infinite kind¬ 
ness. 

It was never so well understood at The Wayside 
that its owner had retiring habits as when Alcott 
was reported to be approaching along the Larch 
414 


THE WAYSIDE 


Path, which stretched in feathery bowers between 
our house and his. Yet I was not aware that the 
seer failed at any hour to gain admittance, — one 
cause, perhaps, of the awe in which his visits were 
held. I remember that my observation was at¬ 
tracted to him curiously from the fact that my 
mother’s eyes changed to a darker gray at his 
advents, as they did only when she was silently 
sacrificing herself. I clearly understood that Mr. 
Alcott was admirable; but he sometimes brought 
manuscript poetry with him, the dear child of his 
own Muse, and a guest more unwelcome than the 
enfant terrible of the drawing-room. There was 
one particularly long poem which he had read aloud 
to my mother and father; a seemingly harmless 
thing, from which they never recovered. Out of the 
mentions made of this effusion I gathered that it 
was like a moonlit expanse, quiet, somnolent, cool, 
and flat as a month of prairies. Rapture, convic¬ 
tion, tenderness, often glowed upon Alcott’s fea¬ 
tures and trembled in his voice. I believe he was 
never once startled from the dream of illusive joy 
which pictured to him all high aims as possible of 
realization through talk. Often he was so happy 
that he could have danced like a child; and he. 
laughed merrily like one; and the quick, upward 
lift of his head, which his great height induced! 
him to hold, as a rule, slightly bent forward, —this 
rapid, playful lift , and the glance, bright and eager 
though not deep, which sparkled upon you, were 
sweet and good to see. Yet I have noticed his 
condition as pale and dolorous enough, before the 
4 IS 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

event of his noble daughter’s splendid success. 
But such was not his character; circumstances 
had enslaved him, and he appeared thin and for¬ 
lorn by incongruous accident, like a lamb in chains. 
He might have been taken for a centenarian when 
I beheld him one day slowly and pathetically con¬ 
structing a pretty rustic fence before his gabled 
brown house, as if at the unreasonable command 
of some latter-day Pharaoh. Ten years after¬ 
ward he was, on the contrary, a Titan : gay, sil- 
very-locked, elegant, ready to begin his life over 
.again. 

Alcott represented to me a fairy element in the 
up-country region in which I so often saw him. I 
heard that he walked the woods for the purpose 
of finding odd coils of tree-roots and branches, 
which would on the instant suggest to him an in¬ 
genious use in his art of rustic building. It was 
rumored that nobody’s outlying curios in this line 
were safe under his eye, and that if you possessed 
an eccentric tree for a time, it was fated to close 
its existence in the keeping of Alcott. I imagined 
his slightly stooping, yet tall and well-grown fig¬ 
ure, clothed in black, and with a picturesque straw 
hat, twining itself in and out of forest aisles, or 
craftily returning home with gargoyle-like stems 
over his shoulders. The magic of his pursuit was 
^emphasized by the notorious fact that his handi¬ 
work fell together in the middle, faded like sha¬ 
dows from bronze to hoary pallor; its longevity was 
a protracted death. In short, his arbors broke 
under the weight of a purpose, as poems become 
416 


THE WAYSIDE 


doggerel in the service of a theorist. Truly, Alcott 
was completely at the beck of illusion; and he 
was always safer alone with it than near the hard 
uses of adverse reality. I well remember my as¬ 
tonishment when I was told that he had set forth 
to go into the jaws of the Rebellion after Louisa, 
his daughter, who had succumbed to typhus fever 
while nursing the soldiers. His object was to 
bring her home ; but it was difficult to believe that 
he would be successful in entering the field of 
misery and uproar. I never expected to see him 
again. Almost the only point at which he nor¬ 
mally met this world was in his worship of apple- 
trees. Here, in his orchard, he was an all-admi¬ 
rable human being and lovely to observe. As 
he looked upon the undulating arms or piled the 
excellent apples, red and russet, which seemed to 
shine at his glance, his figure became supple, his 
countenance beamed with a ruby and gold akin to 
the fruit. In his orchard by the highroad, with 
its trees rising to a great height from a basin¬ 
shaped side lawn (which may originally have been 
marshy ground), he seemed to me a perfect soul. 
We all enjoyed greatly seeing him there, as we 
wended to and from our little town. No doubt 
the garden of children at the beginning of his 
career inspired him likewise ; and in it he must 
have shown the same tender solicitude and bene¬ 
volence, and beamed upon his young scholars with 
a love which exquisitely tempered his fantastical 
suppositions. 

He often spoke humbly, but he never let peo- 
4*7 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

pie think he was humble. His foibles appeared 
to me ridiculous, and provoked me exceedingly, — 
the brave cat of the proverb must be my excuse, 
— but I awakened to the eternal verity that some 
such husks are rather natural to persons of purely 
distinctive minds, perhaps shielding them. And 
I think one comes to value a bent blessed with 
earnest unconsciousness ; a not too clever Argus 
vision; a childlike gullibility and spontaneity. 
This untarnished gullibility and gentle confidence, 
for all his self-laudations, Alcott had, and when 
he did not emerge either from his apple orchard or 
his inspirations he was essentially wholesome, full 
of an ardent simplicity, and a happy faith in the 
capacities given him by his Creator. So that his 
outline is one of much dignity, in spite of the 
somewhat capricious coloring of his character; the 
latter being not unlike the efforts of a nursery 
artist upon a print of “The Father of His Coun¬ 
try,” for whom, as he stands proudly upon the 
page, a green coat and purple pantaloons were 
not intended, and are only minor incidents of 
destiny. 

Mr. Ellery Channing was, I am sure, the towns¬ 
man who was most gladly welcome. My parents 
felt great admiration and friendliness for him, 
and it would be a sacrifice on my own part not 
to mention this companion of theirs, although I 
must beg his pardon for doing so. There is no 
doubt that Concord would have hung with several 
added pounds of weight upon our imaginations 
if it had not been for him. Over his tender-heart- 
418 


THE WAYSIDE 


edness, as I saw him in the old days, played deli¬ 
cious eccentricities, phosphorescent, fitful, touch- 
me-not antics of feeling. I was glad to meet the 
long glance of his gray, dazzling eyes, lowered 
gracefully at last. The gaze seemed to pass 
through me to the wall, and beyond even that 
barrier to the sky at the horizon line. It did not 
disturb me; it had been too kindly to criticise, 
or so I thought. No doubt Mr. Channing had 
made his little regretful, uncomplimentary notes 
in passing, but it was characteristic of his exqui¬ 
site comradeship towards all that we did not fear 
his eyes. I say comradeship, although the power 
which I believed touched him with its wand 
so mischievously had induced him to drop (as 
a boy loses successively all his marbles) all his 
devoted friends, without a word of explanation, 
because without a shadow of reason; the only 
thing to be said about it being that the loss was 
entirely voluntary on the part of this charming 
boy. He would cease to bow, as he passed. Then 
he found the marbles again, pocketed them as if 
nothing had happened, smiled, called, and hob¬ 
nobbed. A man’s high-water mark is his calibre ; 
and at high-water mark Mr. Channing’s sea was 
to us buoyant, rich-tinted, sunlit; a great force, 
darkening and dazzling with beautiful emotions. 
He was in those days devoted to the outer air, and 
to the wonders of the nature we do not often 
understand, even when we trap it and classify it. 
He always invited his favorites to walk with him, 
and I once had the honor of climbing a very high 
419 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


hill by his side, in time to look at a Concord sun¬ 
set, which I myself realized was the finest in the 
world. 

Another peculiar spirit now and then haunted 
us, usually sad as a pine-tree — Thoreau. His 
enormous eyes, tame with religious intellect and 
wild with the loose rein, making a steady flash 
in this strange unison of forces, frightened me 
dreadfully at first. The unanswerable argument 
which he unwittingly made to soften my heart 
towards him was to fall desperately ill. During 
his long illness my mother lent him our sweet 
old music-box, to which she had danced as it war¬ 
bled at the Old Manse, in the first year of her 
marriage, and which now softly dreamed forth 
its tunes in a time-mellowed tone. When he died, 
it seemed as if an anemone, more lovely than any 
other, had been carried from the borders of a 
wood into its silent depths, and dropped, in soli¬ 
tude and shadow, among the recluse ferns and 
mosses which are so seldom disturbed by passing 
feet. Son of freedom and opportunity that he 
was, he touched the heart by going to nature’s 
peacefulness like the saints, and girding upon his 
American sovereignty the hair-shirt of service to 
self-denial. He was happy in his intense disci¬ 
pline of the flesh, as all men are when they have 
once tasted power—if it is the power which awak¬ 
ens perception of the highest concerns. His coun¬ 
tenance had an April pensiveness about it; you 
would never have guessed that he could write of 
owls so jocosely. His manner was such as to 
420 


THE WAYSIDE 


suggest that he could mope and weep with them. 
I never crossed an airy hill or broad field in Con¬ 
cord, without thinking of him who had been the 
companion of space as well as of delicacy; the 
lover of the wood-thrush, as well as of the In¬ 
dian. Walden woods rustled the name of Thoreau 
whenever we walked in them. 

When we drove from the station to The Way- 
side, in arriving from Europe, on a hot summer 
day, I distinctly remember the ugliness of the 
un-English landscape and the forlornness of the 
little cottage which was to be our home. Melan¬ 
choly and stupid days immediately followed (at 
least they were so in my estimation). I marveled 
at the amount of sand in the flower-borders and 
at the horrifying delinquencies of our single ser¬ 
vant. 

For some years I was eager to use all the 
eloquence I could muster in my epistles to girl 
friends, in England or anywhere, as to the pau¬ 
city of life in Concord. Perhaps the following 
extracts from two letters, one written at Bath, 
England, and the other at Concord, and never sent, 
but kept by my mother from the flames with many 
more of my expressions in correspondence, may 
convey the feelings of the whole family : — 

31 Charles Street, Bath, England. 

Dear Hannah [Redcar Hannah], — When I 
go home I think that I shall never have such a nice 
time as when I go home; for I shall have such 
a big garden, and I shall have little and big girls 
421 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

to come and see me. Never on earth shall I have 
such a nice time as when I am at home. 

After the transition : — 

Concord, Mass. 

I am in Concord now, and long to see you 
again, but I suppose that it is useless to think of 
it. I am going out, after I have done my lessons, 
to have a good time. — A very good time indeed, 
to be sure, for there was nothing but frozen 
ground, and I had to be doing something to keep 
myself warm, and I had to come back after a lit¬ 
tle while. I do not know how to keep myself 
warm. Happy are you who keep warm all the 
time in England. The frost has made thick leaves 
on our windows everywhere, and you can hardly 
see through them. 

I tried to bring the stimulus of great events 
into the Concord life by writing stories, of which 
I would report the progress to my one or two 
confidantes. My father overheard some vainglori¬ 
ous boasts from my lips, one afternoon, when the 
windows of the little library where he sat were 
open; and the small girl who listened to me, 
wide-eyed, and I myself, proud and glad to have 
reached a thrilling denouement, were standing 
beside the sweet-clover bed, not dreaming of any¬ 
thing more severe than its white bloom. A few 
minutes afterwards, my father hung over me, dark 
as a prophetic flight of birds. “ Never let me 
hear of your writing stories ! ” he exclaimed, with 
422 


THE WAYSIDE 


as near an approach to anger as I had ever seen 
in him, “ I forbid you to write them ! ” But I 
believe this command only added a new attrac¬ 
tion to authorship, agreeably haunting me as I 
beckoned imaginary scenes and souls out of chaos. 

An oasis bloomed at remote seasons, when we 
went to visit Mr. and Mrs. Fields in Boston. My 
mother writes of my reviving, and even becoming 
radiant, as soon as a visit of this fragrant nature 
breathed upon me. I joyously begin a letter of 
my mother’s with the following greeting: “As 
soon as we got to Boston. My dear, dear Papa. 
We will write to you very promptly indeed. We 
have got here safely, and are also very glad to get 
here. We had some rich cake and sherry as soon 
as we got here. — [My mother proceeds :] Annie 
glided in upon us, looking excellently lovely. 
Heart’s-Ease [Mr. Fields] appeared just before 
dinner. He declares that the ‘Consular Experi¬ 
ences ’ is superb. — I write in the deep green shade 
of this wood of a library. We all went to church 
through the hot sunshine. Mr. Fields walked 
on the sunny side, and when Mrs. Fields [Mrs. 
Meadows was the playful name by which we called 
her] asked him why, he said, ‘ Because it makes 
us grow so. Oh, I am growing so fast I can 
scarcely get along ! * Mr. Fields said it made him 
very sleepy to go to church, and he thought it 
was because of the deacons. — He says the world 
is wild with rapture over your ‘Leamington Spa.* 
He did not know how to express his appreciation 
of it. — We met Mr. Tom Appleton at the gallery, 

423 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

and he was very edifying. There is a good por¬ 
trait by Hunt. Mr. Appleton called it ‘ big art/ 
which took my fancy, it being so refreshing after 
hearing so much said about ‘high art.' There is 
a portrait of Hunt by himself, which has a line 
about the brow that is Michelangelic; ‘ the bars 
of Michelangelo.’ A head of Fremont was hand¬ 
some, but showing a man incapable of large com¬ 
binations. He looks eagle-like and loyal and bril¬ 
liant, but not wise. We felt quite glorious with 
the war news, and were surprised to see so few 
flags flying. To breakfast we had Mr. Dysie. 
It was pleasant to hear his English brogue — a 
slight excess of Henry Bright’s Lancashire ac¬ 
cent. To tea we had Mr. and Mrs. Bartol, and 
Mr. Fields was so infinitely witty that we all died 
at the tea-table. Mr. Bartol, in gasps, assured 
him that he had contrived a way to save the food 
by keeping us in convulsions during the ceremony 
of eating, and killing us off at the end. Annie 
had on a scarlet coronet that made her look en¬ 
chanting, and Mr. Fields declared she was Moses 
in the burning bush. Oh, do delay the acacia 
blossoms till I come! Give a sky full of love to 
Una and Julian.” 

My father also tasted the piquant flavors of 
merriment and luxury in this exquisite domicile of 
Heart’s-Ease and Mrs. Meadows. 

And at The Wayside, too, we had delightful 
pleasures, in the teeth and front of simplicity and 
seclusion, sandy flower-borders, rioting weeds, and 
intense heats. Concord itself could gleam occa- 
424 


THE WAYSIDE 


sionally, even outside of its perfect Junes and Octo¬ 
bers, as we can see here in the merry geniality of 
Lousia Alcott, who no more failed to make people 
laugh than she fa^ed to live one of the bravest 
and best of lives. In return for a package of 
birthday gifts she sent us a poem, from which I 
take these verses : — 

“ The Hawthorne is a gracious tree 
From latest twig to parent root, 

For when all others leafless stand 
It gayly blossoms and bears fruit. 

On certain days a friendly wind 
Wafts from its spreading boughs a store 
Of canny gifts that flutter in 
Like snowflakes at a neighbor’s door. 

“ The spinster who has just been blessed 
Finds solemn thirty much improved, 

By proofs that such a crabbed soul 
Is still remembered and beloved. 

Kind wishes ‘ ancient Lu ’ has stored 
In the ‘ best chamber ’ of her heart, 

And every gift on Fancy’s stage 
Already plays its little part. 

“ Long may it stand, the friendly tree, 

That blooms in autumn and in spring, 

Beneath whose shade the humblest bird 
May safely sit, may gratefully sing. 

Time will give it an evergreen name, 

Axe cannot harm it, frost cannot kill; 

With Emerson’s pine and Thoreau’s oak 
Will the Hawthorne be loved and honored still! 

My mother’s records, moreover, in letters to her 
husband, refer to the humble labors that almost 
filled up her devoted year (her daughters tried to 
imitate her example), and these references indi- 

425 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

cate the difference we felt between Europe and 
home: — 

Rose raised all the echoes of the county by 
screaming with joy over her blooming crocuses, 
which she found in her garden. The spring intox¬ 
icates her with “ remembering wine.” She hugs 
and kisses me almost to a mummy, with her rap¬ 
tures. Little spots of green grass choke her with 
unutterable ecstasy. 

September 9, i860. Julian illuminated till tea- 
time ; and after tea I read to both him and Rose 
a chapter of Matthew, and told them about Paul. 
— Rosebud has been drawing wonderfully on the 
blackboard recognizable portraits of Mr. Bennoch, 
;her beloved Charlotte Marston, and Julian. Ben 
.Mann appeared with a letter from dear Nona 
[Una]; and with one from Bentley, England, mod- 
■estly asking of thee a book, to publish! — The 
weeds in the garden now exceed belief. There is 
not a trace to be seen of the melon or cucumber 
vines, or squashes, or of the beans towards the 
lane. All are completely overtopped by gigantic 
plants, like the Anakins overrunning the Israel¬ 
ites. Such riot of uninvited guests I never ima¬ 
gined. I shall try to do something, but I fear 
my puny might will not effect much against such 
hordes. The wet and heat together produce such 
growths as I never saw except in Cuba. There 
is a real forest at the back door, between the 
house and the terraces. The greenness is truly 
English and Irish. — I picked forty ears of corn 
426 


THE WAYSIDE 


to-day. — We all met at the Alcotts’ at tea-time. 
It was a clear, frosty air that bit me as I went in 
through the sunset. We had a delightful visit. 
Mr. Alcott was sweet and benign as possible, and 
Mrs. Alcott looked like Jupiter Olympus. — Gen¬ 
eral Hitchcock has been gone about an hour. 
Baby had got me some exquisite roses from Mr. 
Bull’s, of various shades from deep crimson to 
light pink, and I arranged a flat glass dish full on 
the Roman mosaic table, and a tall glass on the 
white marble table, and a glass on the Hawthorne 
tea-table, while the illuminated crocus [a vase] 
was splendid with dahlias and tiger-lilies beneath 
the Transfiguration. So the drawing-room looked 
lovelily, and a fine rose-odor was diffused. All the 
blinds were open and the shades up, and a glory 
of greenness refreshed the eyes outside on the 
plumy, bowery hill and lawn. In this charming 
apartment I received my General. The most 
beautiful light of life beamed from his face at 
my recognition of his ideas, and at any expression 
of mine which showed a unity with his ; or rather 
with truth. His quiet eyes have gathered innu¬ 
merable harvests, and his observations are invalu¬ 
able because impersonal. [He had made a study 
of the alchemists, and all mystical philosophy.] — 
Elizabeth Hoar spent the whole of yesterday morn¬ 
ing with me. We talked Roman and Florentine 
talk. She thought our house the most fascinating 
of mansions. She is always full of St. Paul’s char¬ 
ity. On the Roman table was a glass dish of 
exquisite pond-lilies, which Una brought from the 
427 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

river this morning; and out of the centre of the 
lilies rose a tall glass of superb cardinal-flowers. 
On the white table was a glass dish of balsams 
of every shade of red, from deep crimson through 
scarlet to pale pink, over to purple and up to white. 
— Una returned to-day from Boston. She has 
had a nice visit, and seen many persons, all of 
whom expressed to her unbounded adoration of 
you. “ Why mamma, how everybody loves, adores 
him ! ” said she. Of course. — I had a call from 
the dancing-master, a most debonair individual, all 
smile and bow and curvets. I wish you could have 
seen the man. It was the broad caricature of ele¬ 
gant manners. How funny things are! I can 
hear you say, “ Natur is cur’ous.” —I looked in 
upon Edith Emerson’s party, and she had a large 
table spread with flowers, cake, and sugar-plums, 
beneath the trees, and a dozen children were run¬ 
ning and laughing round a “ pretty Poll,” who 
scolded at them all. Mrs. Emerson was flitting 
like the spirit of a Lady Abbess in and out, in 
winged lace headdress and black silk. Your letter 
was a bomb of joy to me last evening. — I have 
taken heaps of your clothes to mend. What a 
rag-fair your closet was — and you did not tell 
me! Mrs. Alcott brought me some beer made 
of spruce only, and it was nice. Thou shalt have 
thy own beer, when you come home. — Bab went 
to see Mrs. Alcott, and I resumed weeding. At 
seven I heard thirteen cannon-shots, and did not 
understand it. Then I possessed The Wayside 
all alone till near eight of the evening. Not a 
428 


THE WAYSIDE 


sound but birds’ last notes was to be heard. It 
was strange and sweet. I thought of you in a sea- 
breeze with felicity. At about eight I heard little 
feet racing along the Larch Path, and Baby came 
to view. She read aloud to me some of your 
“ Virtuoso’s Collection,” and then to bed, celestial. 

— A letter came from Mr. Bennoch. He wails 
like Jeremiah over our war, and longs for a letter 
from you. He sends cartes de visite of himself 
and his wife. He looks uncommonly dumpy, with 
a pair of winged whiskers of astounding effect, 
and the expression of his face is blandly seraphic. 

[From my mother’s diary.] yanuary i, 1862. 
Letter and wine from General Pierce. I heard 
Mr. Emerson’s lecture on War. Furious wind. — 
There is a lovely new moon; a golden boat. — 
Papa read “The Heart of Mid-Lothian ” aloud in 
the evening. — I wish I knew whether the lines of 
my hand are like those of Sir Thomas Browne’s. 

— My husband has made an anagram of my 
name : “ A hope while in a storm, aha! ” — Gen¬ 
eral Pierce arrived at noon. I went to the Town 
Hall to hear the Quintette Club play the Fifth 
Symphony of Beethoven. Mrs. Alcott came with 
us. Bright moonlight at midnight. General Pierce 
remained all night. — My husband made an ana¬ 
gram of the General’s name, “Princelie Frank.” 

— My husband read aloud to me “ Sir Launcelot 
Greaves.” Papa read “Anne of Geierstein.” — 
I prepared Julian for acting Bluebeard; and Ellen 
Emerson lent me the gear. We worked hard all 

429 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

day. —We received the photographs of Una and 
myself. Mine of course uncomely. — Mr. Tick- 
nor came to dine; and Mr. Burchmore [son of 
Stephen Burchmore, whose tales at the Custom 
House were so inimitable] also came. — My hus¬ 
band is not well. I have been very anxious about 
him ; but he is better this evening, thank God. — 
My right hand is so bad that I have to bathe it in 
arnica all the time, for I have worn it out by mak¬ 
ing shoes [and other ornamented articles for a 
masquerade to which her children were to go]. 

[The letters to my father continue.] Ellen and 
Edith Emerson took tea with Una, and they went 
home early, at about eight. At ten I heard a man’s 
step and a ring at the door-bell. I went to the door, 
and not opening it, in a voice of command asked, 
“ Who is it?” No reply. I again fiercely inquired, 
“Who is it?” “Is Ellen here?” pleaded the 
surprised, quiet voice of Mr. Emerson ! I imme¬ 
diately unlocked my portcullis, and in the lowest 
tone of woman begged the Sage to excuse my 
peremptory challenge. —The Masquerade was 
worth the great trouble taken in preparing for it. 
Una was quite gorgeous with her glittering em¬ 
broideries of silver and gold, and her exquisite 
turban gleaming with precious stones and pearls. 
The most delicate roses bloomed in her cheeks, 
and her eyes were like two large radiant stars. 
She danced with Sir Kenneth of Scotland, per¬ 
sonated admirably by Edward Emerson, in armor 
of black and gold, severe and simple. — [My sis- 
43o 


THE WAYSIDE 


ter adds her own delighted reference to my mo¬ 
ther’s.] “ Oh, father! I did have the most awfully 
jolly time at the Masquerade that ever anybody 
had. It was the most perfectly Arabian Nights' 
scene, and the Princess Scheherezade [herself] at 
last saw in very fact one of the scenes that her 
glowing fancy had painted; but being now freed 
from the fear of death, her mind had lost its ter¬ 
rific stimulus and returned to its normal condition, 
or perhaps was a little duller than usual from be¬ 
ing so long overtaxed; at all events, she did not 
compose a new story on the occasion, as might 
have been expected. A great many people spoke 
to me of the splendor of my dress. Mamma was 
so delighted with the becomingness of my black 
velvet jacket, that she has bought me a splendid 
dress of the same, and has sent for a bushel of 
seed-pearls to trim it with. The little bill for 
these items is awaiting you on your desk. I shall 
set up for a queen for the rest of my life, and if 
you are still going to call me Onion, you must 
find out the Persian for it.” 

[The diary resumes.] My husband read to me 
his paper on his visit to Washington. Dr. George 
B. Loring and Mr. Pike [of Salem] came to tea 
in the evening. Mr. Thoreau died this morning. 
— The funeral services were in the church. Mr. 
Emerson spoke. Mr. Alcott read from Mr. Tho¬ 
reau's writings. The body was in the vestibule, 
covered with wildflowers. We went to the grave. 
Thence my husband and I walked to the Old 
43i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Manse and Monument. Then I went to see 
Annie Fields at Mr. Emerson’s. — Fog and sul¬ 
try. Brobdingnag dropping from eaves. — Superb 
morning. My husband transplanted sunflowers 
[of which he was immensely fond, though lilies- 
of-the-valley were his favorites]. — My husband 
and Julian went to Boston; and Julian walked 
home in eight and a half hours [twenty miles]. — 
Una’s party took place to-night. Papa illuminated 
it with his presence. — Pleasant day. Papa mag¬ 
nanimously picked some strawberries. — I went 
on the hilltop with my husband all the morning 
[of a Sunday in June].—Our wedding-day. It 
is very hot and smoky. We think it the smokes 
of battles. —Very warm and fine. Mr. Alcott 
worked all day, lacking three hours [in construct¬ 
ing a rustic seat at the foot of our hill], I went 
on the hilltop with my husband for a long time. 
Ineffable felicity. — A perfectly lovely day. I 
read “Christ the Spirit.” Rose had a discourse 
from the Sermon on the Mount; the four verses 
about giving alms. We have very nice discourses 
[my mother’s], Una went to church. — Mr. 
George Bradford came to see us. Una and Julian 
went to the Emersons’ in the evening. — Read 
again “Leamington Spa.” Inimitable, fascinat¬ 
ing. — Thanksgiving Day. We invited Ellery 
Channing, but he could not come. —Julian and I 
went to Boston. When I came home I found 
my husband looking very ill. Julian has gone 
on a visit to the Fields’s. — My husband quite ill. 
Everything seems sad, when he is ill. I sewed 
432 


THE WAYSIDE 


all day.—My husband seems much better. He 
went up on the hill. Papa and the children played 
whist in the evening, while I read Charles Reade. 
— Celia cleared the old attic to-day. I found my 
dear hanging astral, that lighted my husband in 
his study at the Old Manse, and also Una’s baby 
socks. — Judge Hoar came to invite my husband 
to tea with Mr. Eustis and Mr. Bemis and Mr. 
Emerson. He would not go. — I read ominous 
news of the war, which quite saddened and 
alarmed me. I read “ Christ the Spirit.” — I read 
about Alchemy and Swedenborg. Ellery Chan- 
ning came to tea and spent the evening. He 
asked me if he might bring General Barlow to 
tea on Tuesday. 

It was almost immediately after our return home 
that the first notes of the requiem about to en¬ 
velop us fell through the sound of daily affairs, 
at long intervals, because my father, from that 
year, began to grow less and less vigorous. 

There are many references in my mother’s dia¬ 
ries and letters to my father’s enforced monotony, 
and also to his gradually failing health, which, by 
the very instinct of loving alarm, we none of us 
analyzed as fatal; though, from his expression of 
face, if for no other reason, I judge he himself 
understood it perfectly. Death sat with him, at 
his right hand, long before he allowed his physi¬ 
cal decline to change his mode of life. He tried 
to stem the tide setting against him, because it is 
the drowning man’s part, even if hopeless. He 
433 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


walked a great deal upon the high hill-ridge be¬ 
hind the house, his dark, quietly moving figure 
passing slowly across the dim light of the min¬ 
gled sky and branches, as seen from the large 
lawn, around which the embowered terraces rose 
like an amphitheatre. A friend tells me that, 
from a neighboring farm, he sometimes watched 
my father in an occupation which he had under¬ 
taken for his health. A cord of wood had been 
cut upon the hill, and he deliberately dragged it 
to the lower level of his dwelling, two logs at a 
time, by means of a rope. Along the ridge and 
down the winding pine-flanked path he slowly and 
studiously stepped, musing, looking up, stopping 
to solve some point of plot or morals; and mean¬ 
while the cord of wood changed its abiding-place 
as surely as water may wear away a stone. But 
his splendid vigor paled, his hair grew snowy 
white, before the end. My mother wrote to him 
in the following manner from time to time, when 
he was away for change of scene : — 

September 9, 1860. My crown of glory. This 
morning I waked to clouds and rain, but for my¬ 
self I did not care, as you were not here to be 
depressed by it. There was a clear and golden 
sunset, making the loveliest shadows and lights 
on the meadows and across my straight path [over 
the field to the willows, between firs], and now 
the stars shine. — The way in which Concordians 
observe Fast is by loafing about the streets, driv¬ 
ing up and down, and dawdling generally. No 
434 


THE WAYSIDE 


one seems to mourn over his own or his country’s 
sins. Such behavior must disturb our Puritan 
fathers even on the other side of the Jordan. — In 
the evening Julian brought me a letter. “It is 
from New York,” said he, “but not from papa.” 
But my heart knew better, though I did not know 
the handwriting. I dashed it open, and saw “ N. 
H.,” and then, “ I am entirely well,” not scratched 
out. Thank God! . . . The sun has not shone 
to-day, and there is now a stormy wind that howls 
like a beast of prey over its dead. It is the most 
ominous, boding sound I ever heard. 

March 15, 1862. The news of your appetite 
sends new life into me, and immediately increases 
my own. 

July. I am afraid you have been in frightful 
despair at this rainy day. It has flooded here in 
sheets, with heavy thunder. But I have snatched 
intervals to weed. I could see and hear every¬ 
thing growing around me in the warm rain. The 
army corn has hopped up as if it were parched. 
The yellow lilies are reeling up to the skies. Pig¬ 
weed has become camelopard weed. . . . Alas 
that you should be insulted with dried-apple pie 
and molasses preserves ! Oh, horror ! I thought 
that you would have fresh fruit and vegetables. 
Pray go to a civilized house and have decent fare. 
— I know it will do you immense good to make 
this journey. You should oftener make such visits, 
and then you would “ like things” better. Your 
spirits get below concert pitch by staying in one 
place so long at a time. I am glad Leutze keeps 
435 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

you on [to paint Hawthorne’s portrait]. Do not 
come home till the middle of September. Just 
remember how hot and dead it is here in hot 
weather, and how you cannot bear it. — I do not 
think I have a purer pleasure and completer satis¬ 
faction, nowadays, than I am conscious of when I 
get you fairly away from Concord influences. I 
then sit down and feel rested through my whole 
constitution. All care seems at an end. I would 
not have had you here yesterday for all England. 
It was red-hot from morn to dewy eve. We burned 
without motion or sound. But you were in Bos¬ 
ton, and not under this hill. If you wish me to 
be happy, you must consent to spend the dog- 
days at the sea. — After a cool morning followed 
a red-hot day. It seemed to me more intolerable 
than any before. You could not have borne such 
dead weather. The house was a refrigerator in 
comparison to the outdoor atmosphere. — We 
have had some intolerably muggy days. That 
is, they would have been so, if you had not been 
at the sea. — You have been far too long in one 
place without change, and I am sure you will get 
benefit under such pleasant conditions as being 
the guest of Mr. and Mrs. [Horatio] Bridge, and 
a witness of such new phases of life as those in 
Washington. — Splendors upon splendors have 
been heaped into this day. Loads of silky plumed 
corn or even sheaves of cardinal-flowers cannot 
be compared to the new sunshine and the mag¬ 
nificent air which have filled the earth from early 
dawn. The brook that became a broad river in 
436 


THE WAYSIDE 


the flood of yesterday made our landscape perfect. 
It seemed to me that I must dance and sing, and 
now I know it was because you were writing to 
me. Rose and I went down the straight path 
[called later the Cathedral Aisle] to look at the 
fresh river. I delayed to be embroidered with 
gold sun over and over, and through and through. 
At the gate I was arrested by the tower, also 
illustrious with the glory of the atmosphere, and 
very pretty indeed, lifting its nice, shapely head 
above the decrepit old ridge-pole of the ancient 
house. — I took my saw and went on a lovely 
wander, with a fell intent against all dead and 
confusing branches. How infinitely sweet it is 
to have access to this woodland virtue ! It does 
me measureless good; and I am sure such air 
as we have on these fine days must be the effect 
of heroic and gentle deeds, and is a pledge that 
there are not tens only, but tens of thousands of 
heroes on this earth, keeping it in life and being. 
— Your letter has kindled us all up into lamps 
of light to-day. But I am wholly dissatisfied with 
your boarding-house, so full of deaf women, and 
violin din, and schoolgirls! Pray change your 
residence and have peace. You will curse your 
stars if you have to “bellow” for three weeks, 
when you so hate to speak even in your natural 
inward tone. — Mary has just sent me a note, 
saying that there is a paragraph in the paper 
about your being at Washington, and that the 
President [Lincoln] received you with especial 
graciousness. Stay as long as you can, and get 
437 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


great good. I cannot have you return yet. — The 
President has had a delicious palaver with a depu¬ 
tation of black folk, talking to them as to babies. 
I suspect the President is a jewel. I like him 
very well. — If it were not such a bore, I could 
wish thou mightest be President through this 
crisis, and show the world what can be done by 
using two eyes, and turning each thing upside 
down and inside out, before judging and acting. 
I should not wonder if thy great presence in 
Washington might affect the moral air and work 
good. If you like the President, then give him 
my love and blessing.—The President’s im¬ 
mortal special'message fills me with unbounded 
satisfaction. It is so almost superhumanly wise, 
moderate, fitting, that I am ready to believe an 
angel came straight from heaven to him with it. 
He must be honest and true, or an angel would 
not come to him. Mary Mann says she thinks 
the message feeble, and not to the point. But 
I think a man shows strength when he can be 
moderate at such a moment as this. Thou hadst 
better give my high regards to the President. I 
meant to write to him ; but that mood has passed. 
I wish to express my obligations for the wisdom 
of his message. 


438 


CHAPTER XV 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

I was once asked to write of my father’s “ liter¬ 
ary methods,” and the idea struck me as delight¬ 
fully impossible. I wish I knew just what those 
methods were — I might hope to write a romance. 
But as the bird on the tree-bough catches here 
and there a glimpse of what men are about, 
although he hardly aspires to plough the field 
himself, or benefit by human labor until the 
harvest comes, so I have observed some facts 
and gathered some notions as to how my father 
thought out his literary work. 

One method of obtaining his end was to devote 
himself constantly to writing, whether it brought 
him money or not. He might not have seemed 
to be working all the time, but to be enjoying 
endless leisure in walking through the country 
or the city streets. But even a bird would have 
had more penetration than to make such a mis¬ 
take as to think this. Another wise provision was 
to love and pity mankind more than he scorned 
them, so that he never created a character which 
did not possess a soul — the only puppet he ever 
contrived of straw, “ Feathertop,” having an ex¬ 
cellent soul until the end of the story. Still an- 
439 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

other method of gaining his success was to write 
with a noble respect for his own best effort, on 
which account he never felt satisfied with his writ¬ 
ing unless he had exerted every muscle of his fac¬ 
ulty; unless every word he had written seemed 
to his severest self-criticism absolutely true. He 
loved his art more than his time, more than his 
ease, and could thrust into the flames an armful 
of manuscript because he suspected the pages of 
weakness and exaggeration. 

One of his methods of avoiding failure was to 
be rigorous in the care of his daily existence. A 
preponderance of frivolous interruption to a modi¬ 
cum of thorough labor at thinking was a system 
utterly foreign to him. He would not talk with 
a fool; as a usual thing he would not entertain 
a bore. If thrown with these common pests, he 
tried, I think, to study them. And they report 
that he did so very silently. But he did not waste 
his time, either by politely chattering with peo¬ 
ple whom he meant to sneer at after they had 
turned their backs, or in indulgences of loafing 
of all sorts which leave a narcotic stupidity in 
their wake. He had plenty of time, therefore, for 
thought, and he could think while walking either 
in the fresh air, or back and forth in his study. 
Men of success detest inactivity. It is a hard¬ 
ship for them to be as if dead for a single mo¬ 
ment. So, when my father could not walk out of 
doors during meditation, he moved back and forth 
in his room, sturdily alert, his hands clasped be¬ 
hind him, quietly thinking, his head either bent 
440 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

forward or suddenly lifted upward with a light in 
his gray eyes. 

He wrote principally in the morning, with that 
absorption and regularity which characterize the 
labor of men who are remembered. When his 
health began to show signs of giving way, in 1861, 
it was suggested by a relative, whose intellect, 
strength of will, and appetite for theories were of 
equally splendid proportions, that my father only 
needed a high desk at which to stand when writ¬ 
ing, to be restored to all his pristine vigor. With 
his usual tolerance of possible wisdom he per¬ 
mitted such a desk to be arranged in the tower- 
study at The Wayside ; but with his inexorable 
contempt for mistakes of judgment he never, 
after a brief trial, used it for writing. Upon his 
simple desk of walnut wood, of which he had 
nothing to complain, although it barely served 
its purpose, like most of the inexpensive objects 
about him, was a charming Italian bronze ink- 
stand, over whose cover wrestled the infant Her¬ 
cules in the act of strangling a goose — in friendly 
aid of “drivers of the quill.” My father wrote 
with a gold pen, and I can hear now, as it seems, 
the rapid rolling of his chirography over the broad 
page, as he formed his small, rounded, but irreg¬ 
ular letters, when filling his journals, in Italy. 
He leaned very much on his left arm while writ¬ 
ing, often holding the top of the manuscript book 
lovingly with his left hand, quite in the attitude 
of a boy. At the end of a sentence or two he 
would sometimes unconsciously bow his head, as 
441 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

if bidding good-by to a thought well rid of for the 
present in its new garb of ink. 

In writing he had little care for paper and ink. 
To be sure, his large, square manuscript was 
firmly bound into covers, and the paper was usu¬ 
ally of a neutral blue ; and when I say that he had 
little care for his mechanical materials I mean 
that he had no servile anxiety as to how they 
looked to another person, for I am convinced that 
he himself loved his manuscript books. There 
was a certain air of humorous respect about the 
titles, which he wrote with a flourish, as com¬ 
pared with the involved minuteness of the rest of 
the script, and the latter covers every limit of the 
page in a devoted way. His letters were formed 
obscurely, though most fascinatingly, and he was 
almost frolicsome in his indifference to the com¬ 
fort of the compositor. Still he had none of the 
frantic reconsiderations of Scott or Balzac. If he 
made a change in a word it was while it was 
fresh, and no one could obliterate what he had 
written with a more fearless blot of the finger, or 
one which looked more earnest and interesting. 
There was no scratching nor quiddling in the 
manner with which he fought for his art. Each 
day he thought out the problems he had set him¬ 
self before beginning to write, and if a word of¬ 
fended him, as he recorded the result, he thrust 
it back into chaos before the ink had dried. I 
think that the manuscript of “ Dr. Grimshawe’s 
Secret ” is an exception, to some extent. There 
are many written self-communings and changes 
442 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

in it. My father was declining in health while it 
was being evolved. But yet, in “The Dolliver 
Romance,” the last work of all in process of de¬ 
velopment, written while he was physically break¬ 
ing down, we see the effect of will and heroic 
attempt. It is the most beautiful of his composi¬ 
tions, because his mind was greater at that time 
than ever, and because death could not frighten 
him, and in its very face he desired to complete 
the proof of his whole power, as the dying soldier 
rises to the greatest act of his life, having given 
his life-blood for his country’s cause. Though 
the script of this manuscript is extremely difficult 
to read, the speculation had evidently been done 
before taking up the pen. I am not sure but 
that my father sometimes destroyed first drafts, 
of which his family knew nothing. Indeed, we 
have his own word for it that “he passed the day 
in writing stories and the night in burning them.” 
Nevertheless, his tendency we know to have been 
that of thinking out his plots and scenes and 
characters, and transcribing them rapidly without 
further change. 

Since he did not write anything wholly for the 
pleasure of creative writing, but had moral mo¬ 
tives and perfect artistic harmony to consider, he 
could not have indulged in the spontaneous, pas¬ 
sionate effusions which are the substance of so 
much other fiction. He was obliged to train his 
mind to reflection and judgment, and therefore 
he never tasted luxury of any kind. The mere 
enjoyment of historical settings in all their charm 
443 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


and richness, rehabilitated for their own sake or 
for worldly gain; and that of caricatures of the 
members of the human family, because they are 
so often so desperately funny; the gloating over 
realistic pictures of life as it is found, because 
life as it is found is a more absorbing study than 
that of geology or chemistry; the tasting of re¬ 
dundant scenes of love and intrigue, which flatter 
the reader like experiences of his own, — these 
excesses he was not willing to admit to his art, 
a magic that served his literary palate with still 
finer food. He wrote with temperateness, and in 
pitying love of human nature, in the instinctive 
hope of helping it to know and redeem itself. 
His quality was philosophy, his style forgiveness. 
And for this temperate and logical and laconic 
work — giving nothing to the world for its mere 
enjoyment, but going beyond all that to ennoble 
each reader by his perfect renunciation of artis¬ 
tic claptrap and artistic license — for this aim he 
needed a mental method that could entirely com¬ 
mand itself, and, when necessary, weigh and gauge 
with the laborious fidelity of a coal-surveyor, before 
the account was rendered with pen and ink upon 
paper. When he brought within his art the per¬ 
sonality of a human devil, he honored its human¬ 
ity, and proved that the real devil is quite another 
thing. In fact, perhaps he would not have per¬ 
mitted the above epithet. In one of her letters 
my mother remarks, “ I think no sort of man can 
be called a devil, unless it be a slanderer.” 

Though he dealt with romance he never gave 
444 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 


the advantage of an inch to the wiles of bizarre 
witchery, the grotesque masks of wanton caprice 
in imagination—those elements which exhibit the 
intoxication of talent. His terrors were those of 
our own hearts; his playfulness had the merit 
of the sunlight. In short, he was artistically con¬ 
secrated, guiding the forces he used with the 
reins of truth ; and he could do this unbrokenly 
because he governed his character by Christian 
fellowship. If he shrank from unnecessary inter¬ 
ruptions, which jarred the harmony of his artistic 
life, he nevertheless met courteously any that were 
to him inevitable. Could he have written with 
the heart’s blood of old Hepzibah if he had failed 
to put his own shoulder to the domestic wheel, 
on the plea that it was too deep in the slough of 
disaster to command his assistance ? He did not 
dread besmirching his hands with any affairs sent 
him by God. 

“ The heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a 
stranger intermeddleth not with its joy; ” and 
the joy and the bitterness of creative work are 
not intermeddled with as much as one might sup¬ 
pose by the outside weather of praise or non¬ 
comprehension, if the artist is great enough to 
keep his private self-respect. I am of the opinion 
that my father enjoyed his own indifference to 
his accomplished work, yet knew its value to the 
minutest ray of the diamond; that he had sharply 
challenged the enchantment of his first concep¬ 
tion, and heard the right watchword, yet recog¬ 
nized that no human conception can fathom the 
445 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

marvels of the superhuman. I believe that the 
men we admire most, in the small group of great 
minds, are sufficiently necromantic to look two 
ways at once — to appreciate and to condemn 
themselves. So my father heard himself praised 
with composure, and blamed his skill rejoicingly. 

Some passages from a copy of an article in 
“The North British Review” of Edinburgh dur¬ 
ing 1851 were capable of filling a wife’s heart 
with exultation, and my mother quotes: “ ‘ The 
most striking features in these tales are the 
extraordinary skill and masterly care which are 
displayed in their composition. ... It would be 
difficult to pick out a page which could be omitted 
without loss to the development of the narrative 
and the idea, which are always mutually illustra¬ 
tive to a degree not often attained in any species 
of modern art. ... His language, though extra¬ 
ordinarily accurate, is always light and free. . . . 
We know of nothing equal to it, in its way [the 
portrayal of Dimmesdale], in the whole circle of 
English literature ; ’ and much more in the same 
superlative vein.” 

But if my father could weigh his artistic suc¬ 
cess with the precision of a coal-heaver, who will 
ever be able to weigh and gauge the genius which 
carries methods and philosophies and aims into 
an atmosphere of wonderful power, where the 
sunlight and the color and the lightning and 
frowning clouds transfigure the familiar things 
of life in glorious haste and inspiration ? While 
following his rules and habits my father was con- 
446 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

stantly attended by the rapturous spirit of such 
a genius, transmuting swarming reality into a few 
symbolic types. 

Another way in which he effected telling labor 
was to conserve his force in the matter of wran¬ 
gling. He kept his temper. He was not without 
the fires of life, but he banked them. He did not 
permit disgust at others or at the adverse destiny 
of the moment to absorb his vitality, by throwing 
it off in long harangues of rage, long seasons of 
the sulks. There are no such good calculators 
as men of consummate genius. They dread the 
squandering of energy of an Edgar Allan Poe or 
of a boiling Walter Savage Landor. Temperate¬ 
ness implies the control of fierce elements; and 
in all management of volcanic power we perceive 
sweetness and beauty. 

When my father handled sin, it became uncon¬ 
taminating tragedy; when he handled vulgarity, 
as in “The Artist of the Beautiful,” it became 
inevitable pathos ; when he handled suspicion, 
as in “ The Birthmark ” and “ Rappaccini’s Daugh¬ 
ter,” it evolved devoted trust. 

The frequent question as to whether Haw¬ 
thorne drew from his family or friends in portray¬ 
ing human nature shows an unfamiliarity with 
literary art. Portraiture is not art, in literature* 
though a great artist includes it, if he chooses, 
in the category of his productions. To any one 
permeated by the atmosphere of art (though not 
quite of it) as I was, it seems strange that a truly 
artistic work should be thought to be an imitation 
447 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

of individual models. The distance of inspiration 
is the distance of a heavenly fair day, or of a night 
made luminous by mystery, giving a new quality 
and a new species of delight to facts about us. 
In reading the sympathetic merriment of the in¬ 
troduction to “ The Scarlet Letter,” and then the 
story itself, we perceive the difference between 
the charm of a Dutch-like realism and the thrill 
of imaginative creation, which uses material made 
Incomprehensibly wonderful by God in order to 
make it comprehensibly wonderful to men. But, 
of course, the material thus transmuted by the 
distance of inspiration is only new and fine to 
men who have ears to hear and eyes to see. My 
father never imitated the men and women he met, 
nor man nor woman, and such conceptions of his 
way would bring us to a dense forest of mistake. 

In the afternoon my father went, if practicable, 
•into the open spaces of nature, or at least into 
the fresh air, to gather inspiration for his work. 
He had no better or stronger or more lavish aids 
than air and landscape, unless I except his cigar. 
He never, I think, smoked but one cigar a day, 
but it was of a quality to make up for this self- 
denial, and I am sure that he reserved his most 
•puzzling literary involutions for the delicious half- 
vhour of this dainty enjoyment. 

In 1861 and thereafter he traversed, as has 
•been said, the wooded hilltop behind his home, 
which was reached by various pretty climbing 
paths that crept under larches and pines, and 
scraggy, goat-like apple-trees. We could catch 
448 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

sight of him going back and forth up there, with 
now and then a pale blue gleam of sky among 
the trees, against which his figure passed clear. 
Along this path, made by his own steps only, he 
thought out the tragedy of “ Septimius Felton,” 
who buried the young English officer at the foot 
of one of the large pines which my father saw at 
each return. At one end of the hilltop path was 
a thicket of birch and maple trees; and at the 
end towards the west and the village was the 
open brow of the hill, sloping rapidly to the Lex¬ 
ington Road, and overlooking meadows and distant 
wood-ranges, some of the cottages of humble 
folk, and the neighboring huge, owlet-haunted 
elms of Alcott’s lawn. Along this path in spring 
huddled pale blue violets, of a blue that held sun¬ 
light, pure as his own eyes. Masses also of 
sweet-fern grew at the side of these abundant 
bordering violets, and spacious apartments of 
brown-floored pine groves flanked the sweet-fern, 
or receded a little before heaps of blackberry 
branches and simple flowers. My father’s violets 
were the wonder of the year to us. We never 
saw so many of these broad, pale-petaled ones 
anywhere else, until the year of his death, when 
they greeted him with their celestial color as he 
was borne into Sleepy Hollow, as if in remem¬ 
brance of his long companionship on The Way- 
side hill. 

It is well with those who forget themselves in 
generous interest for the hopes, possibilities, and 
spiritual loftiness of human beings all over the 
449 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

world. Such men may remain poor, may never 
in life have the full praise of their fellows; but 
they could easily give testimony as to the delights 
of praise from God, — that which comes to our 
lips after little spiritual victories, like spring water 
on a hot day, and of which the workers in noble 
thought or adventure drink so deep. These re¬ 
presentative men, if they cheer their fancy with 
fair thoughts of wide public approbation, choose the 
undying sort, that blooms like the edelweiss beyond 
the dust of sudden success. Hawthorne worked 
hard and nobly. Not even the mechanic who toils 
for his family all day, all week-days of the year, 
and never swears at wife or child, toils more nobly 
than this sensitive, warm-hearted, brave, recluse, 
much-seeing man. He teaches the spiritual great¬ 
ness of the smallest fidelity, and the spiritual de¬ 
struction in the most familiar temptations. The 
Butterfly which he describes floats everywhere 
through his pages, and it is broken wherever the 
heart of one of his characters breaks, for there 
sin has clutched its victim. It floats about us 
lovingly to attract our attention to higher things; 
and I am sure the radiant delicacy of the winged 
creature throbbed on a flower near David Swan, 
as he slept honestly through the perils of evil. 

Every touch of inner meaning that he gives 
speaks of his affection, his desire to bring us 
accounts of what he has learned of God’s benevo¬ 
lence, in his long walks on the thoroughfares and 
in the byways, and over the uncontaminated open 
country, of human hope. Poverty, trouble, sin, 
450 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

fraudulent begging, stupidity, conceit, — nothing 
forced him absolutely to turn away his observation 
of all these usual rebuffs to sympathy, if his incon¬ 
venience could be made another’s gain. But he 
was firm with a manliness that was uncringing 
before insolence, and did not shrink from speaking 
home truths that pruned the injurious branches 
of the will; yet he never could be insulting, be¬ 
cause he had no selfish end. As a comrade he 
led to higher perceptions and moods. The men 
who chatted with him in the Salem Custom House, 
the Liverpool Consulate, and elsewhere, never 
forgot that he was the most inspiring man they 
had known. All this was work. The idle man, 
lazy in a drunken carouse, is in a world of his 
own. His sphere stretches out no connecting 
tendrils to the spheres of others; he seems to 
us dead in spirit; he will tell you he believes in 
no one’s true friendship, and wishes for no com¬ 
panionship ; we do not know how to touch his 
heart, nor in what language to make him hear 
when we call, — he is in Mars. But the sen¬ 
tinel, still as marble, or moving like a well-ad¬ 
justed machine that will not defy law — he stirs 
us by his energy, his laboring vigilance. His 
care for others would make him surrender his 
life at once. The trusted soldier has left selfish¬ 
ness and cowardice on the first tenting-ground, 
and works hard, though he stands statue-like. 
It is his business to be of use, and he is never 
useless. So with a great artist. He is brother 
to gentleman or churl. Hawthorne had not an 
45i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

atom of the poison of contempt. As I have 
said before, if he did not love stupidity, he for¬ 
gave it. 

He was fond of using his hands for work, too ; 
and he had skill in whatever he did. His activity 
of this manual sort may be inferred from the fact 
that when a young man he gradually whittled 
away one of the leaves of his writing-table, while 
musing over his stories. He did not know, unplea¬ 
santly, that he was doing it. What fun he must 
have had! Think of the rich scenery of thought 
that spread about him, the people, the subtle mo¬ 
tives, the eerie truths, the entrancing outlooks 
into divine beauty, that entertained him as his 
sharp blade carved and sliced his table, which 
gladly gave itself up to such destruction ! When 
he was writing “The Scarlet Letter,” as Julian’s 
nurse Dora long delighted to tell, his wife with 
her dainty care in sewing was making the little 
boy a shirt of the finest linen, and was putting in 
one sleeve, while the other lay on the table. Dora 
saw Hawthorne, who was reading, lay down his 
book and take up something which he proceeded 
to cut into shreds with some small scissors that 
exactly suited him. 

“Where can the little sleeve be which I fin¬ 
ished, and wished to sew in here, my love ? ” said 
his blissful wife. Hawthorne (blissfully thinking 
of his novel) only half heard the question; but on 
the table was a heap of delicate linen shavings, and 
the new scissors testified over them. 

His jack-knife was a never-ending source of plea- 
452 


THE ARTIST AT WORK 

sure, and he was seldom without the impulse, if a 
good opportunity offered, to subject a sapling to 
it for a whistle, or to make some other amusing 
trifle, or to cut a bit of licorice with a slow, sure 
movement that made the black lump most accept¬ 
able. 

His mind was never in a stound. It was either 
observing, or using observations. Of course he 
lost his way while walking, and destroyed com¬ 
monplace things while musing; and the world 
hung just so much the less heavily upon his 
moving pinions of thought. 

His diligence of mind is reported of him at an 
early age. His sister, Ebie Hawthorne, gave me 
a bust of John Wesley, in clerical white bib, and 
of a countenance much resembling Alcott’s, even 
to the long, white, waving hair. Its very aspect 
cried out, though never so mercifully, “ My sermon 
is endless ! ” 

Aunt Ebie, hunching her shoulders in mirthful 
appreciation, said, “Nathaniel always hated it!” 

Why not ? At four years of age he had already 
had enough of Wesley; and my aunt, with a re¬ 
joicing laugh, described how, not being able to 
induce his elders to act upon his abhorrence of the 
melancholy, tinted object, at last, in dead of win¬ 
ter, he filled it with water through a hole in the 
pedestal, which had revealed its hollowness. He 
then stood the bust upside down against the wall 
in a cold place, confidently awaiting the freezing of 
the water, in which event it was to be hoped that 
453 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

the puppet sermonizer would burst, like a pitcher 
under similar odds. But John Wesley never burst, 
to the disgust of a broader mind and the offended 
wonder of childish eyes. 

454 


CHAPTER XVI 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

A few words from a letter of Emerson’s to my 
mother, written after my father’s death, will give 
a true impression of the friendship which existed 
strongly between the two lovers of their race, who, 
though they did not have time to meet often, may 
be said to have been together through oneness of 
aim: — 

Concord, nth July [1864]. 

Dear Mrs. Hawthorne, — Guests and visi¬ 
tors prevented me from writing you, last evening, 
to thank you for your note, and to say how much 
pleasure it gives me, that you find succor and re¬ 
freshment in sources so pure and lofty. The very 
selection of his images proves Behman poet as 
well as saint, yet a saint first, and poet through 
sanctity. It is the true though severe test to put 
the Teacher to, — to try if his solitary lessons 
meet our case. And for these thoughts and 
experiences of which you speak, their very con¬ 
fines and approaches lift us out of the world. I 
have twice lately proposed to see you, and once 
was on my way, and unexpectedly prevented. I 
have had my own pain in the loss of your husband. 
He was always a mine of hope to me, and I pro¬ 
mised myself a rich future in achieving at some 
455 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

day, when we should both be less engaged to 
tyrannical studies and habitudes, an unreserved 
intercourse with him. I thought I could well 
wait his time and mine for what was so well worth 
waiting. And as he always appeared to me supe¬ 
rior to his own performances, I counted this yet 
untold force an insurance of a long life. Though 
sternly disappointed in the manner and working, 
I do not hold the guarantee less real. But I must 
use an early hour to come and see you to say 
more. 

R. W. Emerson. 

If my father expected a full renewal of coim 
radeship with American men of his own circle, 
and even the deeper pleasure of such friendship 
in a maturer prime alluded to by Emerson, cir¬ 
cumstances sadly intervened. The thunderstorm 
of the war was not the only cause of his retiring 
more into himself than he had done in Europe, 
although he felt that sorrow heavily. Or perhaps 
I might say with greater correctness that when he 
appeared, it was without the joyous air that he had 
lately displayed in England, among his particular 
friends, when his literary work was over for the 
time being after the finishing of “ Monte Beni.” 
I remember that he often attended the dinners 
of the Saturday Club. A bill of fare of one of 
the banquets, but belonging to an early date, 
1852, read: “Tremont House. Paran Stevens, 
Proprietor. Dinner for Twelve Persons, at three 
o’clock.” A superb menu follows, wherein can- 
456 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 


vas-back ducks and madeira testify to the satis¬ 
faction felt by the gentlemen whose names my 
father penciled in the order in which they sat ; 
Mr. Emerson, Mr. Clough, Mr. Ellery Channing, 
Mr. Charles Sumner, Mr. Theodore Parker, Mr. 
Longfellow, Mr. Lowell, Mr. Greenough, Mr. 
Samuel Ward, and several others making the 
shining list. His keen care for the health of his 
forces induced him to hold back from visits even 
to his best friends, if he were very deeply at 
work, or paying more rapidly than usual from his 
capital of physical strength, which had now begun 
to sink. Lowell tried to fascinate him out of 
seclusion, in the frisky letter given in “ A Study 
of Hawthorne ; ” but very likely did not gain his 
point, since Longfellow and others had infrequent 
success in similar attempts. 

I chanced to discover the impression my father 
made upon Dr. Holmes, as we sat beside each 
other at a dinner given by the Papyrus Club of 
Boston more than fifteen years ago, on ladies’ 
night. That same evening I dashed down a 
verbatim account of part of our conversation, 
which I will insert here. 

He passed his card over to my goblet, and took: 
mine. “That is the simplest way, is it not?” he, 
asked. 

“ I was just going to introduce myself,” said L 
Then Mrs. Elizabeth Stoddard sat down by me, 
and I turned to speak with her. 

In a moment Dr. Holmes held my card forward 
again. “ Now let me see! ” he said. 

457 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

1 And you don’t know who I am, yet ? ” I asked. 

He smiled, gazed at the card through his 
eyeglasses, and leaned towards me hesitatingly. 
“ And what was your name ? ” he ventured. 

u Rose Hawthorne.” 

He started, and beamed. “ There ! I thought 
— but you understand how — if I had made a 
mistake— Could anything have been worse if 
you had not been ? I was looking, you know, for 
the resemblance. Some look I seemed to dis¬ 
cover, but ” — 

“ The complexion,” I helped him by interrupt¬ 
ing, “is entirely different.” 

He went on : “ I was — no, I cannot say I was 
intimate with your father, as others may have 
been ; and yet a very delightful kind of intercourse 
existed between us. I did not see him often ; 
but when I did, I had no difficulty in making 
him converse with me. My intercourse with your 
mother was also of a very gratifying nature.” 

To this I earnestly replied respecting the admi¬ 
ration of my parents for him. 

“ I delighted in suggesting a train of thought 
•to your father,” Dr. Holmes ran on, in his exqui¬ 
sitely cultured way, and with the esprit which has 
surprised us all by its loveliness. “ Perhaps he 
would not answer for some time. Sometimes it 
was a long while before the answer came, like an 
echo; but it was sure to come. It was as if the 
high mountain range, you know ! — The house- 
wall there would have rapped out a speedy, bab¬ 
bling response at once ; but the mountain ! — I 
458 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 


not long ago was visiting the Custom House at 
Salem, the place in which your father discovered 
those mysterious records that unfolded into * The 
Scarlet Letter.’ Ah, how suddenly and easily 
genius renders the spot rare and full of a great 
and new virtue (however ordinary and bare in 
reality) when it has looked and dwelt! A light 
falls upon the place not of land or sea! How 
much he did for Salem ! Oh, the purple light, 
the soft haze, that now rests upon our glaring 
New England ! He has done it, and it will never 
be harsh country again. How perfectly he under¬ 
stood Salem! ” 

“ Salem is certainly very remarkable,” I re¬ 
sponded. 

“ Yes, certainly so,” he agreed. “ Strange folk ! 
Salem had a type of itself in its very harbor. The 
ship America, at Downer’s wharf, grew old and 
went to pieces in that one spot, through years. 
Bit by bit it fell to atoms, but never ceded itself 
to the new era. So with Salem, precisely. It is 
the most delightful place to visit for this reason, 
because it so carefully retains the spirit of the 
past; and ‘ The House of the Seven Gables ’ ! ” 
Dr. Holmes smiled, well knowing the intangibility 
of that house. 

Said I: “ The people are rich in extraordinary 
oddities. At every turn a stranger is astonished 
by some intense characteristic. One feels strongly 
its different atmosphere.” 

“ And their very surroundings bear them out! ” 
Dr. Holmes cried, vivacious in movement and 
459 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

glance as a boy. “ Where else are the little door- 
yards that hold their glint of sunlight so tena¬ 
ciously, like the still light of wine in a glass ? 
Year after year it is ever there, the golden square 
of precious sunbeams, held on the palm of the 
jealous garden-patch, as we would hold the vial of 
radiant wine in our hand ! Do you know f ” He 
so forcibly appealed to my ability to follow his 
thought that I seemed to know anything he 
wished. “ I hope I shall not be doing wrong,’* 
he continued, — “I hope not, — in asking if you 
have any preference among your father’s books ; 
supposing you read them, which I believe is by 
no means always the case with the children of 
authors.” 

“ I am surprised by that remark. After the age 
of fifteen, when I read all my father’s writings 
except ‘ The Scarlet Letter,’ which I was told to 
reserve till I was eighteen, I did not study his 
books thoroughly till several years ago, in order 
to cherish the enjoyment of fresh effects, — ex¬ 
cept ‘ The Marble Faun,’ which I think I prefer.” 

He answered : “ I feel that ‘ The Scarlet Let¬ 
ter ’ is the greatest. It will be, it seems to me, 
the one upon which his future renown will 
rest.” 

I admitted that I also considered it the great¬ 
est. 

In the above conversation I was entranced by 
what I have experienced often : the praise of my 
father’s personality or work (in many cases by 
people who have never met him) is not only the 
460 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

courtesy that might be thought decorous towards 
a member of his family, or the bright zest of a 
student of literature, but also the glowing ardor 
of a creature feeling itself a part of him in spirit; 
one who longs for the human sweetness of the 
grasp of his hand; who longs to hear him speak, 
to meet his fellowship, but finds the limit reached 
in saying, at a distance of time and space, “ I love 
him ! ” I have lowered my eyes before the emo¬ 
tion to be observed in the faces of some of his 
readers who were trying to reach him through a 
spoken word of eagerness. Very few have seen 
him, but how glad I am to cross their paths ! Dr. 
Holmes’s warmth of enthusiasm was so radiant 
that it could not be forgotten. It lit every word 
with the magic of the passion we feel for what is 
perfect, unique, and beyond our actual possession, 
now and forever. 

Towards the last an unacknowledged fear took 
hold of my mother’s consciousness, so that she 
gave every evidence of foretelling my father’s 
death without once presenting the possibility to 
herself. This little note of mine, dated April 4 9 
1864, six weeks before he died, shows the truth : — 

“ I am so glad that you are getting on so well; 
but for your own sake I think you had better stay 
somewhere till you get entirely well. Mamma 
thought from the last letter from Mr. Ticknor 
that you were not so well; but Julian explained 
to her that, as Mr. Ticknor said in every line that 
you were better, he did not see how it could pos¬ 
sibly be. I do not either.” 

461 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

From the first year of our return to America 
letters and visitors from abroad had interrupted 
the sense of utter quiet; and many friends called 
in amiable pilgrimage. But a week of monotony 
is immensely long, and a few hours of zest are 
provokingly short. Nature and seclusion are wel¬ 
come when, at our option, we can bid them good- 
by. All England is refreshing with the nearness 
of London. In the rush of cares and interrupt 
tions which we suppose will kill the opportunity, 
while we half lose ourselves and our intellectual 
threads of speculation, the flowers of inspiration 
suddenly blow, the gems flash color. This is a 
pleasant, but not always an essential satisfaction ; 
yet, in my father’s case, I think his life suffered 
with peculiar severity from the sudden dashing 
aside of manly interests which he had already 
denied to himself, or which circumstances had 
denied to him, with the utmost persistence ever 
known in so perceptive a genius. He undoubtedly 
had a large store of inherited experiences to draw 
upon; he was richly endowed with these, and 
could sit and walk alone, year after year (except 
for occasional warm reunions with friends of the 
cleanest joviality), and feel the intercourse with 
the world, of his ancestors, stirring in his veins. 
He tells us that this was ghostly pastime ; but it 
is an inheritance that makes a man well equipped 
and self-sustained, for all that. When too late, the 
great men about him realized that they had esti¬ 
mated his presence very cheaply, considering his 
worth. Should he frequently have sought them 
462 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

out, and asked if they were inclined to spare a 
chat to Hawthorne; or should they have insisted 
upon strengthening their greatness from his inimi¬ 
tably pure and unerring perception and his never 
weary imagination ? It is impossible to ignore 
the superiority of his simplicity of truth over the 
often labored searchings for it of the men and 
women he knew, whose very diction shows the 
straining after effect, the desire to enchant them¬ 
selves with their own minds, which is the bane 
of intellect, or else the uneasy skip and jump of 
a wit that dares not keep still. As time ripens, 
these things are more and more apparent to all, 
as they were to him. In a manner similar to Em¬ 
erson’s, who spoke of his regret for losing the 
chance of associating fully with my father, Long¬ 
fellow wrote to my mother: — 

Cambridge, June 23, 1864. 

Dear Mrs. Hawthorne, — I have long been 
wishing to write to you, to thank you for your 
kind remembrance, in sending me the volume of 
Goldsmith, but I have not had the heart to do it. 
There are some things that one cannot say; and 
I hardly need tell you how much I value your 
gift, and how often I shall look at the familiar 
name on the blank leaf — a name which, more 
than any other, links me to my youth. 

I have written a few lines trying to express the 
impressions of May 23, and I venture to send you 
a copy of them. I had rather no one should see 
them but yourself; as I have also sent them to 
463 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Mr. Fields for the “Atlantic.” I feel how im¬ 
perfect and inadequate they are ; but I trust you 
will pardon their deficiencies for the love I bear 
his memory. More than ever I now regret that 
I postponed from day to day coming to see you 
in Concord, and that at last I should have seen 
your house only on the outside ! 

With deepest sympathy, 

Yours truly, 

Henry W. Longfellow. 

To go back to our Concord amusements. Mr. 
Bright caroled out a greeting not very long after 
our return: — 

West Derby, September 8, i860. 

My dear Mr. Hawthorne, — Of course not! 
— I knew you’d never write to me, though you 
declared you would. Probably by this time you’ve 
forgotten us all, and sent us off into mistland with 
Miriam and Donatello ; possibly all England looks 
by this time nothing but mistland, and you believe 
only in Concord and its white houses, and the 
asters on the hill behind your house, and the 
pumpkins in the valley below. Well, at any rate 
I have not forgotten you or yours; and I feel 
that, now you have left us, a pleasure has slipped 
out of our grasp. Do you remember all our talks 
in that odious office of yours; my visits to Rock- 
ferry ; my one visit, all in the snow, to Southport; 
our excursions into Wales, and through the London 
streets, and to Rugby and to Cambridge ; and how 
you plucked the laurel at Addison’s Bilton, and 
464 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

found the skeleton in Dr. Williams’s library ; and 
lost your umbrella in those dark rooms in Trinity; 
and dined at Richmond, and saw the old lady 
looking like a maid of honor of Queen Charlotte’s 
time; and chatted at the Cosmopolitan ; and 
heard Tom Hughes sing the “Tight Little Is¬ 
land ; ” and — But really I must stop, and can 
only trust that now at last you will be convinced 
of my existence, and remember your promise, and 
write me a good long letter about everything and 
everybody. “ The Marble Faun ” [manuscript] 
is now in process of binding. The photograph 
came just as I had begun to despair of it, and I 
lost not a moment in putting the precious manu¬ 
script into my binder’s hands. I ’ve been for a 
week’s holiday at Tryston, and met several friends 
of yours: Mr. and Mrs. Tom Hughes, Mrs. and 
Miss Procter, Mrs. Milnes. The latter spoke most 
affectionately about you. And so did Mrs. Ains¬ 
worth, whom I met two days ago. But she says 
you promised to write her the story of the Bloody 
Footstep [“The Ancestral Footstep”], and have 
never done it. I’m very fond of Mrs. Ainsworth ; 
she talks such good nonsense. She told us 
gravely, the other day, that the Druses were much 
more interesting than the Maronites, because they 
sounded like Drusus and Rome, whereas the Ma¬ 
ronites were only like marrons glacis, etc. The 

H-s are at Norris Green. Mrs. H. is becoming 

“devout,” and will go to church on Wednesdays 
and Fridays. I want news from your side. What 
is Longfellow about ? Tell me about “ Leaves of 
465 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

Grass,” which I saw at Milnes’s. Who and what 
is the author; and who buy and who read the 
audacious (I use mildest epithet) book ? I must 
now bring this letter to an end. Emerson will 
have forgotten so humble a person as I am; but 
I can’t forget the pleasant day I spent with him. 
Ask Longfellow to come over here very soon. 
And for yourself, ever believe me most heartily 
yours, H. A. Bright. 

He writes to my mother, “ Thank you for the 
precious autograph letters, and the signatures of 
the various generals in your war. . . . What a 
pleasant account you give of Julian. Remember 
me to him. What a big fellow he has become, 
and formidable. I sincerely hope he ’s given up 
his old wish to ‘ kill an Englishman, some day!' 
Don’t forget us all, for we think of all of you.” 
He speaks of my father’s friendship as “ the proud¬ 
est treasure of my life.” 

A friend of Mr. Bright’s pardons my father’s 
unfeeling indifference by a request: — 

Waltham House, Waltham Cross, 
August io, 1861. 

Dear Mr. Hawthorne, —Am I not showing 
my Christian charity when, in spite of the terrible 
disappointment which I felt at your broken pro¬ 
mise to come with Bright to smoke a cigar with me 
about this time last year, I entreat you, in greet¬ 
ing Mr. Anthony Trollope, who with his wife is 
about to visit America, to give him an extra wel- 
4 66 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

come and shake of the hand, for the sake of yours 
most sincerely and respectfully, 

W. W. Synge. 

I will quote two letters from Mr. Chorley, writ¬ 
ten before we left England, to show that even 
writers and friends there could be a trifle irksome 
in comment. My mother amused me sometimes 
by telling me how she had written warringly to 
this noted critic (a cherished acquaintance), when 
he had printed a disquisition upon “ Monte Beni ” 
which did not hit the bull's-eye. But the last 
supplementary chapter in the Romance was due 
to his fainting desire for more revelation, -— a 
chapter which my father and mother looked upon 
as entirely useless, and British. 

13 Eaton Place, West, March 6, ’60. 

Dear Mrs. Hawthorne, — I cannot but af¬ 
fectionately thank you for your remembrance of 
me, and your patience with my note. — If I do not 
return on my own critical fancies about the “ Ro¬ 
mance" (and pray, recollect, I am the last who 
would assume that critics wear a mail celestial, 
and as such can do no wrong) — it may be from 
some knowledge, that those who have lived with a 
work while it is growing — and those who greet 
it, when it is born, complete into life, — canwfi. see 
with the same eyes. I don’t think, if we three 
sate together, and could talk the whole dream out, 
a matter, by the way, hardly possible, we should 
have so much difference as you fancy — so much 
467 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 


did I enjoy, and so deeply was I stirred by the 
book, that (let alone past associations and predilec¬ 
tions) I neither read, nor wrote {meant to ivrite> 
that is) in a caviling spirit: but that which simply 
and clearly seemed to present itself in regard to a 
book which had possessed me (for better for worse) 
in no common degree — by one on whom (I think 
is known) I set no common store. — If I have 
seemed to yourselves hasty or superficial or flip¬ 
pant — all I can say is, such was not my mean¬ 
ing. — Surely the best things can bear the closest 
looking at, — whether as regards beauty or ble¬ 
mish. — 

I repeat that, while I thank you affectionately 
for the trouble you have taken to expostulate with 
my frowardness (if so it be) — I am just as much 
concerned if what was printed gave any pain. 
But, when I look again (I have been interrupted 
twenty times since I began this) — did I not say 
that Hilda was “ cousin ” — that is, family like¬ 
ness, not identity — though it means, what I 
meant, the same sort of light of purity and grace, 
and redemption let into a maze, through some¬ 
what the same sort of chink. — I totally resist any 
idea of mannerism , dear friend Hawthorne, — on 
your part, — and as to the story growing on you, 
as you grow into it: well, I dare say that has hap¬ 
pened ere this : — the best creations have come by 
chance: and if Hawthorne did not mean to excite 
an interest when he wanted merely to make a 
Roman idyl, why did we go into those Cata¬ 
combs ? — 


468 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

Might I say (like Moliere’s old woman) how 
earnestly I desire, that for a second edition, a few 
more openings of the door should be added to the 
story — towards its close ? 

You have been so kind in bearing with me, — in 
coming to me when in London, — and in remem¬ 
bering the nothing I could do here to make you 
welcome, as I fancied you might like best to be 
welcomed, — that I venture to send you this letter 
out of my heart , — and if there be nonsense in it, 
or what may seem spectacled critical pedantry, I 
must trust to your good nature to allow for them. 

Won’t you come to town again ? and wont you 
eat another cosy dinner at my table ? — And pray, 
dear friend Hawthorne, don’t be so long again : — 
and pray, once for all, recollect that you have no 
more faithful nor real literary friend (perhaps, too, 
in other ways might I show it) 

Than yours as always, 

Henry N. Chorley. 

P. S. This is a sort of salad note, written both 
to “ He ” and “ She ” (as they said in old duetts) 
— once again, excuse every incoherence. I am 
still very ill — and have all the day been inter¬ 
rupted. 

13 Eaton Place, West, March 10, y 6 o. 

Dear Mrs. Hawthorne, — I assure you I feel 
the good nature not to be on my side of the treaty. 
It is not common for a critic to get any kind con¬ 
struction, or to be credited with anything save a 
desire to show ingenuity, no matter whether just 
or unjust. — Most deeply, too, do I feel the honor 

469 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

of having a suggestion such as mine adopted, — I 
thought when my letter had gone that I had writ¬ 
ten in a strange, random humor, and that had I 
got a “ Mind your own business '’ sort of answer, 
it was no more than such unasked-for meddling 
might expect. I am glad with all my heart at 
what you tell me about the success of the tale. 
But we really will not wait so long for number 
five ? 

To-day’s train takes you my Italian story : — I 
had every trouble in the world to find a publisher 
for it : having the gift of no-success in a very 
remarkable degree. The dedication tells its own 
story. It was begun in 1848: — and ended not 
before the Italian war broke out. — Some of my 
few readers (within a dozen) are aggrieved at my 
having only told part of the story of Italian patri¬ 
otism. — I meant it merely as a picture of man¬ 
ners : and have seen too much of the class “ refu¬ 
gee,” not to have felt how they have as a class 
retarded, not aided, the cause of real freedom and 
high morals. I should have sent it before, but 
I always feel, like Teresa Panza, when she sent 
acorns to the Duchess. 

You will come to town, and eat in my quiet 
corner before you go, I know : — Perhaps, I may 
call on you at Easter: as there is just a chance of 
my being at Birmingham. 

There is an old house, Compton Wingates, that 
I very much want to see. Has Hawthorne seen it ? 

Once more thank you affectionately, — these 
sort of passages are among the very few set-offs 
470 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 


to the difficulties of a harsh life and all ungracious 
career. My seeing you face to face was, I assure 
you, one of my best pleasures in 1859. 

Ever yours faithfully, 

Henry N. Chorley. 

Hawthorne had returned, for the purpose of 
cherishing American loyalty in his children, from 
a scene that was after his own heart, even to the 
actors in it. He had hoped for quietude and the 
inimitable flavor of home, of course ; but this 
hope was chiefly a self-persuasion. The title of 
his first book after returning, “ Our Old Home,” 
was a concise confession. He would have con¬ 
sidered it a base resource to live abroad during 
the war, bringing up his son in an alien land, how¬ 
ever dear and related it might be to our bone and 
sinew; and if his children did not enjoy the 
American phase of the universe in its crude stage, 
he, at any rate, had done his best to make them 
love it. His loyalty was always something flaw¬ 
less. A friend might treat him with the grossest 
dishonor, but he would let you think he was him¬ 
self deficient in perception or in a proper regard 
for his money before he would let you guess that 
his friend should be denounced. With loyal love, 
he had, for his part, wound about New England 
the purple haze of which Dr. Holmes spoke in 
ecstasy, because he had found his country stand¬ 
ing only half appreciated, though with a wealth 
of virtue and meaning that makes her fairer every 
year. With love, also, he came home, after hav- 
47i 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

ing barely tasted the delights of London and 
Oxford completeness. 

In Concord he entered upon a long renuncia¬ 
tion. Of necessity this was beneficial to his art. 
He was now fully primed with observation, and 
“The Dolliver Romance,” hammered out from 
several beginnings that he successively cast aside, 
appeared so exquisitely pure and fine because of 
the hush of fasting and reflection which environed 
the worker. It is the unfailing history of great 
souls that they seem to destroy themselves most 
in relation to the world’s happiness when they 
most deserve and acquire a better reward. He 
was starving, but he steadily wrote. He was 
weary of the pinched and unpromising condition 
of our daily life, but he smiled, and entertained us 
and guided us with unflagging manliness, though 
with longer and longer intervals of wordless re¬ 
serve. I was never afraid to run to him for his 
sympathy, as he sat reading in an easy-chair, in 
some one of those positions of his which looked 
as if he could so sit and peruse till the end of 
time. I knew that his response would be so cor¬ 
dially given that it would brim over me, and so 
melodiously that it would echo in my heart for a 
great while ; yet it would be as brief as the single 
murmurous stroke of one from a cathedral tower, 
half startling by its intensity, but which attracts 
the birds, who wing by preference to that lofty spot. 

A source of deep enjoyment to my father was 
a long visit from his sister, Ebie Hawthorne (he 
having given her that pretty title instead of any 
472 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

other abbreviation of Elizabeth). I came to know 
her very well in after-years, and was astonished 
at her magic resemblance to my father in many 
ways. I always felt her unmistakable power. She 
was chock-full of worldly wisdom, though living 
in the utmost monastic retirement, only allowing 
herself to browse in two wide regions, — the woods 
and literature. She knew the latest news from 
the papers, and the oldest classics alongside of 
them. She was potentially, we thought, rather 
hazardous, or perverse. But language refuses to 
explain her. Her brother seemed not to dream 
of this, yet no doubt relished the fact that a na¬ 
ture as unique as any he had drawn sparkled in 
his sister. She was a good deal unspiritual in 
everything ; but all besides in her was fine mind, 
wisdom, and loving-kindness of a lazy, artistic 
sort. That is to say, she was unregenerate, but 
excellent; and she fascinated like a wood-creature 
seldom seen and observant, refined and untrained. 
My sister was devoted to her, and says, for the 
hundredth time, in a passage among many pages 
of their correspondence bequeathed to me : — 

My own dear Auntie, — I was made very 
happy by your letter this week. What perfectly 
charming letters you write! Now, don’t laugh 
and say I am talking nonsense; it is really true. 
You make the simplest things interesting by your 
way of telling them; and your observations and 
humor are so keen that I often feel sorry the 
world does not know something of them. I never 
473 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

remember you to have told me anything twice, 
and that can be said of very few people; but there 
are few enough people in the least like you, my 
dearest auntie. . . . 

Aunt Ebie did not look romantic, or exactly 
mysterious, as I first saw her. But she puzzled 
me splendidly nevertheless. She was knitting 
some very heavy blue socks in our library, and her 
needles were extremely large and shining. I do 
not know why she had undertaken this prosaic 
occupation. Everybody was, to be sure, knitting 
socks for the soldiers at that time; but somehow 
aunt Ebie did not strike me as absolutely bene¬ 
volent, and I doubt if she would have labored very 
eagerly for a soldier whom she had never seen. 
She desired to teach me to knit; and, as I was 
really afraid of her, I pretended to be anxious to 
learn. 

I had been told that it was almost an impossi¬ 
bility to get her to travel even a few miles ; that 
the excitement of change and crowds, and danger 
from steam and horse, made her extremely tremu¬ 
lous and wretched. I was the more impressed by 
these quavers in her because I also knew that she 
had sufficient strength of character to upset a 
kingdom, if she chose; that she could use a scep¬ 
tre of keen sarcasm which made heads roll off on 
all sides ; that there was nothing which her large, 
lustrous eyes could not see, and nothing they 
could not conceal. To think, then, that she trem¬ 
bled beside a steam-engine made her a problem. 

474 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

She wore a quaintly round dress of lightish-brown 
mohair, which would not fall into graceful folds. 
So there she sat in the little library, knitting 
Titanically; and I sat alone with her, learning to 
round Hatteras at the heel in a swirl of contra¬ 
dictory impressions. I felt that she ought to have 
been dressed in soft dark silks, with a large, half- 
idle fan before her lips. 

She quickly saw that I was a miniature mystery 
myself, and presently got me out into the woods. 
Here I came into contact with her for the first 
time. 

She stepped along under the trees with great 
deliberation, holding up the inflexible mohair skirt 
as if it could tear on brambles or in gales, and 
looking around quickly and ardently at the sound 
of a bird-note or the glance of a squirrel-leap; her 
great eyes peering for a moment from their widely 
opened lids, and then disappearing utterly again 
under those white veils. Her dark brown, long 
lashes and broadly sweeping eyebrows were dis¬ 
tinct against the pallor of her skin, which was so 
delicately clear, yet vigorous, that I felt its gleam 
as one feels the moon, even if I were not looking 
directly at her. By and by her cheeks took on 
a dawn-flush of beautiful pink. The perfection of 
her health was shown, until her last sickness, by 
this girlish glow of color in her wood-rambles. 

Long before we had arrived at a particularly 
nice flower or species of moss, she knew it was to 
be found, and gathered it up as Fate makes a 
clean sweep of all its opportunities. I was almost 
475 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

as happy when out of doors with her as when I 
was with my father. She had the same eloquence 
in her silences; and when she spoke, it was with 
a sympathy that played upon one’s whole percep¬ 
tion, as a harp is swept inclusively of every string 
by an eager hurry of music. Still, aunt Ebie 
seemed to love moss and leaves as much as some 
people love souls, and I thought she had chosen 
them as the least dangerous objects of affection ; 
whereas my father seemed most to love souls, and 
would have saved mine or another’s at the expense 
of all the forests and vines of Eden. 

To Miss Peabody I wrote of this visit in a man¬ 
ner which shows its reviving effect upon me : — 

My dear Aunt Lizzie, — I like to get your 
letters, as they tell about everything which every¬ 
body does not do. What a pleasant time I did 
have with aunt Ebie Hawthorne last summer! 
It was last summer ; and all the lovely flowers 
were nodding, and the sun shone with all its might, 
and we each took a basket and a book and stayed 
all the afternoon. We brought home heaps of 
flowers and greens. I never had such a pleasant 
time here in the woods. In England my nurse 
Fanny and I used to take long walks on Sunday 
through the lanes, or into the parks ; and take 
baskets and pick baskets full of daisies, pink-and- 
white. Then we went into the endless lanes, long, 
without a single sign of house or cottage (until 
we came to walk so far as to come to a little vil¬ 
lage). Nobody came along in rattling gigs or car- 
476 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

riages ; on Sunday you would not meet a person. 
With great ditches on each side, filled with tall 
grass as high as yourself, if you chose to get down 
into it. But I used to jump across, to get wild 
hawthorn and rose and honeysuckle and wall¬ 
flowers, and make great bunches of them. And 
then the buttercups and daisies and violets in the 
green grass! For in the lanes there was not a 
sign of earth, — all high, green grass. The sun 
shining so hot that you could go in your house- 
dress but for the properness of it. But I cannot 
explain and you cannot imagine; you must go to 
the place and look for yourself, and then you will 
know all about it. The parks are not level at all, 
but are nothing but high hills all together, — dear! 
— so lovely to run down and roll over on, and 
skip rope and jump ! 

My father began to express his wishes in regard 
to provision for our aunt in case of his death; to 
burn old letters ; and to impart to my mother and 
Una all that he particularly desired to say to them, 
among other things his dislike of biographies, andi 
that he forbade any such matter in connection with 
himself in any distance of the future. This com¬ 
mand, respected for a number of years, has been,, 
like all such forcible and prophetic demurs, most 
signally set aside. It would take long to explain 
my own modifications of opinion from arguments 
of fierce resistance to the request for a biographi¬ 
cal handling of him ; and it matters, no doubt, 
very little. Such a man must be thoroughly 
477 


MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

known, as great saints are always sooner or later 
known, though endeavoring to hide their victories 
of holiness and charity. Certainly my father did 
not like to die, though he now wished to do so. 
My mother, later, often spoke, in consolation for 
us and for herself, of his dread of helpless old age ; 
and she tried to be glad that his desire to disap¬ 
pear before decrepitude had been fulfilled. But 
such wise wishes are not carried out as we might 
•choose. The sudden transformation which took 
•place in my father after his coming to America 
was like an instant’s change in the atmosphere 
from sunshine to dusky cold. I have never had 
the least difficulty in explaining it to myself. 

One large item in the sum of his regrets was 
his unexpectedly narrowed means. It would have 
required a generous amount of money to put The 
Wayside and its grounds into the delectable order 
at first contemplated, to bring them into any sort 
of English perfection, and my parents found that 
they could not afford it; and so all resulted in 
semi-comfort and rough appearances. This nar¬ 
rowing of means was caused not a little by the 
want of veracity of a person whom my father had 
trusted with entire affection and a very consider¬ 
able loan, about which we none of us ever heard 
again. A crust becomes more than proverbially 
dry under these circumstances. 

My mother bore every reverse nobly. She 
writes, after her husband’s death : “ I have ‘ en¬ 
joyed life,’ and * its hard pinches’ have not too 
deeply bitten into my heart. But this has been 
478 


THE LEAVE-TAKING 

because I am not only hopeful and of indomitable 
credence by nature, but because this temperament, 
together with the silent ministry of pain, has 
helped me to the perfect, the unshadowed belief 
in the instant providence of God; in his eternal 
love, patience, sweetness; in his shining face, 
never averted. It is because I cannot be disap¬ 
pointed on account of this belief. To stand and 
wait after doing all that is legitimate is my in¬ 
stinct, my best wisdom, my inspiration; and I 
always hear the still, small voice at last. If man 
would not babble so much, we could much oftener 
hear God. The lesson of my life has been pa¬ 
tience. It has only made me feel the more hum¬ 
ble that God has been so beyond count benignant 
to me. I have been cushioned and pillowed with 
tender love from the cradle. Such a mother 
seldom falls to the lot of mortals. She was the 
angel of my life. Her looks and tones and her 
acts of high-bred womanhood were the light and 
music and model of my childhood. Then God 
joined my destiny with him who was to be all 
relations in one. Pain passed away when my hus¬ 
band came. Poverty was lighter than a thistle¬ 
down with such a power of felicity to uphold it. 
With ‘lowering clouds’ I have never been long 
darkened, because the sun above has been so pen¬ 
etrating that their tissue has directly become 
silvered and goldened. Our own closed eyelids 
are too often the only clouds between us and the 
ever-shining sun. I hold all as if it were not mine, 
but God’s, and ready to resign it.” 

479 


' MEMORIES OF HAWTHORNE 

It seemed to me a terrible thing that one so 
peculiarly strong, sentient, luminous, as my father 
should grow feebler and fainter, and finally ghostly 
still and white. Yet when his step was tottering 
and his frame that of a wraith, he was as dig¬ 
nified as in the days of greater pride, holding 
himself, in military self-command, even more erect 
than before. He did not omit to come in his very 
best black coat to the dinner-table, where the 
extremely prosaic fare had no effect upon the dis¬ 
tinction of the meal. He hated failure, depen¬ 
dence, and disorder, broken rules and weariness 
of discipline, as he hated cowardice. I cannot ex¬ 
press how brave he seemed to me. The last time 
I saw him, he was leaving the house to take the 
journey for his health which led suddenly to the 
next world. My mother was to go to the station 
with him, — she who, at the moment when it was 
said that he died, staggered and groaned, though 
so far from him, telling us that something seemed 
to be sapping all her strength; I could hardly 
bear to let my eyes rest upon her shrunken, suf¬ 
fering form on this day of farewell. My father 
certainly knew, what she vaguely felt, that he 
would never return. 

Like a snow image of an unbending but an 
old, old man, he stood for a moment gazing at 
me. My mother sobbed, as she walked beside 
him to the carriage. We have missed him in 
the sunshine, in the storm, in the twilight, ever 
since. 


480 


INDEX OF PERSONS 


Aikens, Mr., 244. ■% 

Ainsworth, Mrs., 465. 

Alcott, A. Bronson, 92, 178-181, 184, 
412, 414-418, 427, 431. 

Alcott, Mrs. A. B., 427-429. 

Alcott, Louisa M., 425. 

Alderson, Baron, 326, 330. 

Allston, Washington, 28, 29, 30. 
Appleton, Thomas G., 423, 424. 
Atherton, Mr., 77, 195. 

Bacon, Miss Delia, 253, 316, 31 
Bancroft, George, 30. 

Barber, Mr., 237. 

Barstow, B., 104. 

Barstow, Ellen, 9. 

Bartol, Mr., 424. 

Bartol, Mrs., 145, 424. 

Bennoch, Francis, 257, 308-310. 

Birch, Sir Thomas, 268. 

Blodget, Mrs., 233, 297, 330. 

Boott, Miss Elizabeth, 398. 

Boott, Frank, 397. 

Bradford, George, 69, 87. 

Bremer, Miss Frederika, 200. 

Bridge, Horatio, 115, 209, 363. 

Bridge, Mrs. Horatio, 115, 116, 209. 
Bright, Henry, 224-233, 235, 235, 268, 
3 I 4> 3 I 5» 424, 464-466- 
Browne, William, 326, 328. 

Browning, Mr., 323, 363, 364, 382, 
396, 397. 398. 

Browning, Mrs., 323, 382, 397, 398. 
Brownson, Orestes, 180, 181. 

Bryant, Mr. and Miss, 382. 

Buchanan, President, 283, 290. 
Burchmore, Captain Stephen, 112,430. 
Burchmore, T., 104, 107. 

Burley, Miss, 14, 24, 25, 26. 

Bums, Colonel, 244. 

Burns, Major, 244. 

Capen, Dr., 19. 

Cecil, Mr., 270. 

Channing, Dr., 12, 13, 228. 

Channing, Dr. W. E., 284. 

Channing, Edward, 12, 13, 412, 418- 
420, 433, 457. 

Channing, Ellery, 60, 68, 87, 211. 
Chorley, Henry N., 467-471. 

Clarke, Sarah, 210, 222. 

Cleveland, Henry, 51. 

Clough, A. H., 457. 

Cochran, Misses, 281. 

Colton, Mr., 79. 


Crampton, Mr., 221, 222. 

Cranch, Christopher P., 364. 

Crauch, Judge, 2. 

Crawford, Mr., 87. 

Crittendon, Mr., 223, 234, 269. 

Curtis, Burrill, 162. 

Curtis, George W., 85-88, 147. 
Cushman, Charlotte, 261, 262. 

De Quincey, Thomas, 243. 

Dike, Mr., 78. 

Doughty, Mr., 11. 

Dufierin, Lord, 255. 

Dysie, Mr., 424. 

Ely, Mrs. R. S., 234. 

Emerson, Charles, 16, 183. 

Emerson, Mrs. R. W., 191, 192, 196. 
Emerson, R. W., 16, 20, 29, 51, 53, 
57. 59. 69, 178, 181-186, 190-192, 
194-196, 209,211, 412-414, 430,455“ 
457* 

Fields, James T., 218, 244, 423, 424. 
Fields, Mrs. James T., 423, 424, 
432. 

Fleming, Lady le, 320. 

Foote, Mrs. Caleb, 49, 50-61, 75,76, 
82, 83. 

Fuller, Margaret, 68,94, 186-189,340, 
368. 

Gardiner, Miss Sally, 12, 19. 

Gaskell, Mrs., 260. 

Goodrich, S. G., 335. 

Greene, Mrs. Anna, 143. 

Greenough, Mr., 457. 

H., Mrs., 229, 266, 268, 465. 
Hawthorne, Mrs., 4, 5, 21, 78. 
Hawthorne, Elizabeth M., 4, 5, 10,13, 
14, 17, 18, 21-23, 27, 28, 452, 472- 
477- 

Hawthorne, Louisa, 20, 22, 58, 59, 71, 
74. 195. l 99* 

Hillard, George S., 11, 19, 50,58, 121, 
122. 

Hillard, Mrs. Susan, 19, 58. 

Hoar, E. Rockwood, 211, 433. 

Hoar, Miss Elizabeth, 51, 56, 60, 118, 
183, 185, 363, 365-368, 427. 

Holden, George H., 109-m. 
Holland, Mr. and Mrs. Charles, 244. 
Holmes, Dr. O. W., 162, 457-460. 
Hooper, Ellen, 46, 47, 50, 68. 



INDEX OF PERSONS 


Hooper, Samuel, 99. 

Hosmer, Harriet, 364, 365. 

Hosmer, Mr., 206, 207. 

Houghton, Lord, 210, 211, 323, 527, 
465. 

Howes, Mr., 99. 

Hughes, Thomas, 465. 

Jackson, Miss, 19. 

James, G. P. R., 148, 149. 

Jerdan, William, 257, 250. 

Jones, George, 363. 

King, John, 17. 

Lane, Miss Harriet, 290, 314. 

Leitch, Captain, 220. 

Lincoln, President, 437. 

Lindsay, Richard, 113. 

Littledale, Mr., 247. 

Liverpool, Mayor of, 239. 

Longfellow, Henry W., 148, 457, 463. 
Loring, Dr. George B., 431. 

Loring, Mrs. George B., 245. 

Lowell, James R., 119, 457. 

Lowell, Mrs. James R., 119-121. 
Lynch, Miss, 223, 236. 

Mann, Horace, 63, 72, 76, 91, 101-108. 
Mann, Mrs. Horace, 62, 63, 90. 
Manning, Miss Mary, 22. 

Manning, Richard, 22. 

Manning, Samuel, 22. 

Mansfield, L. W., 1397141. 

Martineau, Miss Harriet, 7, 185. 
Martineau, Mrs. James, 228, 258, 259. 
Melville, Herman, 143, 145, 155-161, 
200. 

Meredith, Mr., 102. 

Miller, Colonel, 100. 

Miller, Mr., 198-200. 

Miller, Mrs., 248. 

Mills, Mr., 102. 

Mitchell, Miss Maria, 240, 365. 
Moore, Bramley, 265, 267. 

Motley, John Lothrop, 363, 364, 404- 
410. 

Motley, Mrs. J. L., 46, 404, 405. 
Mullet, George W., 110-114. 

Nurse, Rebecca, 6. 

Ogden, Mr., 252. 

O’Sullivan, John, 77, 287. 

Palmer, General, 2, 3. 

Palmer, Mrs. General, 2, 3. 

Parker, Theodore, 457. 

Peabody, Dr., 93i95~97» 218-224, 227- 
262, 265-277, 284, 285. 

Peabody, Elizabeth P., 5, 20, 21, 23, 
125, 126, 128, 129, 149, 150, 167,277- 
283, 285, 286, 288-291, 318-346, 354— 
356, 381, 382, 394-398- 


Peabody, George, 6, 7, 19, 24. 
Peabody, Mary T., 4, 7, 8, 12, 62, 63, 

90 . 

Peabody, Mrs., 2, 57, 63-75, 77~79» 
80-82, 84, 85, 89, 90, 93-95, 97-108, 
126-138, 167-173, 189-212. 
Phillebrown, Mr., 147. 

Phillips, Jonathan, 56. 

Pierce, President, 77, 202, 203, 271, 
429. 

Pike, William B., 37-40, 92, 150-155, 
431 * 

Porter, Mary A., 175-177. 

Powers, Hiram, 384. 

Prescott, Mrs., 80. 

Procter, B. W., 312, 465. 

Putnam, Captain, 102. 

Rathbone, Mrs. Richard, 235. 
Rathbone, Mrs. William, 235. 

Sanders, Mrs., 267. 

Sedgwick, Mrs., 143, 145. 

Seymour, Governor, 364. 

Shaw, Miss Anna, 59, 79. 

Shaw, Frank, 77. 

Shaw, Sarah, 144. 

Shepard, Miss Ada, 371, 397. 

Silsbee, Mr., 220. 

Squarey, Mr., 249. 

Squarey, Mrs., 240. 

Stevens, Paran, 456. 

Stoddard, Mrs. Elizabeth, 457. 

Story, William W., 374 

Story, Mrs. William W., 363,368, 370. 

Sturgis, M. L., 46, 404, 405. 

Sturgis, Mrs. Russell, 313. 

Sumner, Charles, 101, 365, 457. 

Synge, W. W., 209, 467. 

Tabley, Lord Warremore de, 259. 
Talfourd, Field, 222. 

Talfourd, Sir Thomas, 222, 267. 
Tappan, Mr., 145, 164, 167, 171, 173. 
Tappan, Mrs., 122, 163-167. 
Tennyson, Lord, 321-334. 

Thompson, C. G., 147. 37!~373* 
Thoreau, Henry D., 53, 57, 92, 190, 
412, 420, 421, 431. 

Ticknor, William D., 198, 219, 243, 
260, 430, 461. 

Tliaxter, Mr. and Mrs., 204. 

Upham, C. W., 96, 100, 101, 107, 108 

Very, Jones, 24, 26, 29, 30, 183. 

Ward, Mr. Samuel G., 162, 457. 

Ward, Mrs. S. G., 59, 79, 165, 166. 
Warren, Samuel, 267. 

Webster, Daniel, 89-91, 207. 

Whipple, Colonel, 193, 194. 

White, William, 20. 

Wordsworth, Mrs., 320. 


482 







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